Come,
lookup. Lookup at the moon,
so
cool, full and commanding.
Truly,
a ballroom dancer,
crisp
delight high on center stage,
buffing
the sky with shoeless strides,
tango
with adoring tuxedoed-clouds.
Now
she, is slow waltzing
like
a sovereign Victorian queen
with
defining gestures,
purple
warm behind the bright.
Giving
grace to every cloud-touch
and
then to turn,
in
an old Hollywood musical style.
We
become the audience mood,
just
by looking up!
"Don't
you wish you were dancing with her?"
To
be reminisced in the night's liquid ear,
settled
in like conversant embers,
staring
up with intimate eyes.
She
swims like porpoise-to-bow
with
her every sweep-dance step,
throwing
off phrenetic fast-paced clouds
that
are flung around one-time
and
then gone. "What a gal,"
wearing
her man-clouds like boas,
giving
their dream, a sight to remember
as
if by chance, meeting up with a star . . .
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