There is more to this
than the way our tongue moves; the way it
approaches or retreats from teeth, or our lips
shaping themselves first as sly, sunlit maid
and then as aching mother.
The chords thrum as breath weaves a wand
and turns into sound - the voice in the dark
catches light eyes cannot see
if we but pause and listen
to the tone; never the words,
are the illusion, the packaging.
In the room, or out and about,
we several lay ourselves down or move around
and breathe - imagine the world
as small as our heartbeats, as large
as our minds
and we let loose a conversation…
It travels into a space
none of us expected -
not even the finest of poets -
the way a dance becomes something so much more
than a body moving from place to place.