saturday moon

moon—

in this light, on this sea

you are a fandango—

the wind twirls

your skirt

into my face

and stone castanets

click and part

click and part

if I walked into you

how long would it take

for you to teach me

all the moves

before we seem

seamless,

born to do this,

for this is

what is vivid!

in the rush and whoosh

of blood, what's withdrawn

is memory

sharp as the tip

of a needle

pushed into a vein

and that tip’s

narrow eye drawing

out liquid light

to be stored in glass vials

to be tested and sorted with

the speed of sound found

only in our centrifuge spin

(14 April 2012)