She left her teabags on the countertop,
like a pair of wet eyes on a silver plate,
staring, gazelessly, at the shut door.
It just doesn’t have the nerve to stare back.
The mellow sound of flutes and lutes
Filled the lush air of a crystal night.
A splotch of notes to coat the dark.
She couldn’t help but go.
We will not fear the stretch of a bony hand,
or the clutch of greasy fingers on our wrists.
They lost all their rings and ornaments,
They won’t leave any marks
on our tremulous flesh.
So let’s join in!
After all there is a sense,
in which to be is to dance.