At the Tavern

a drum falls
in the leaves
red, golden spun
soft, rumble and roll
and I run my bare toes
through them
and my fingers across the skin
a dance begins between
this woman
her earth
and a shivering
articulated dialect of branch, color, breath
and wandering
through memory,
a warmer stretch
the supple course of muscle
his wing spanned
against her
and then their dance done:
having already swept the mostly dark
whole-moon sky

One thought on “At the Tavern

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