The wings are wet with oil, and yet.
Still here, we look. This alteration:
how many steps? How bright when
it becomes us, before the lens
takes its leave. I may have lost
mine already, but I remember.
How we had no use for silences
or speech. Neither was needed
to let the other be.
5 thoughts on “A Dance”
I love this poem.
Gabriela, thank you: )
My pleasure dearest Stacey 🙏🌹🌺
Love those last three lines. Great work!
Bartholomew, thank you for this kindness. Heart.