We Could Be Dancing Already
We could be dancing already
each of us a body in a field
of air, canvas-like, absorbing our postures.
Subway riders tilted with the shapes of departure
surgeons parting the swinging doors,
every person managing the weight of their gear.
Those who tend the pain-body and must
never stop listening.
Those who have found themselves
swimming in heavy weathers.
The fraught decisions—the unrequited—a dance of faults
and fractures, of planes shifting over each other
and sliding apart. A dance of darkening to nearly night
and becoming progressively lighter upward.
Or a dance when the floor suddenly releases its trap.
To move in the ordinary ways,
the raised hand, bending toward shoes,
love-in-idleness, on knees planting or praying,
balancing a child upon hip for years is a practice
that sways the weight left to free the right more capable.
We meet each other in the familiar forms
adjusted by degrees
each of us tangoing our matter
as self and cargo, as actor and shelter and natural history
laying it down raising it up
in a field of air that you and you press again into
Baby body nested into youth into sexual body upon decades,
we become the strata of our former selves
moving afield in the air we make warmer
through it with our persistent tumbling,
born into it, slow-dancing out.