The lines of your dance have mystified poets,
philosophers, storytellers and theologians
beyond our histories. I believe in the fiction
of your movement, the choreography of lines
and air that moves in lungs. The pure pearls
hang in a straight line, loosely your arm bends
above your head receiving the Sun. I am
a Moon reflecting your light—the round legs
you pierce the water with, the depth of eyes
that hold my gaze, the toes majestically
balancing your weight. I would have no man
know it: but you could not be hid. I sing
the lines of your dance and the mysteries
apparent to all men, though thinly veiled.
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