(pas de deux)
it’s not supposed to be like this
you’re not supposed to talk to strangers
let alone a silver angel
who harps on dancing, pins and
how words fail to convey the antigravity
of the abstract inexpressible
and you forgot yourself because
you didn’t expect his lyric visitation
(did you think he’d come to you in clay?)
you slurred your name (blushed just a little)
didn’t tell him that you keep the keys
that unlock all the puzzles
so that when you waltzed away on air
you found a feather on the ground
he must’ve lost it in the fall,
falling so in love with you
needing so to know the answer
to your ever clever riddle:
what is written on my heart?
* * *
