A new poem

TENTATIVE

There are no rules. There must be rules. Our dance
hand touches hand withdraws. Eyelash on cheek
Diffident. I once knew, forgot, my Greek
Have to relearn this language of romance

Archaic yet new-minted. Dreams that fade
in halflight scrawl graffiti in tired eyes
deciphered dusty subtext of your sighs
and whispers. We negotiate a trade

in glances slyness charm, in words that slink
like urban foxes, seen a second, gone
nervous proud flirting. Both of us will run
from sight, and then be there, next time we blink.

I step you weave around. Turn pirouette
These gestures mean themselves, no more. And yet…

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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