Hands shape little waves,
twining and untwining, gentle
semaphores, tendrils of smoke.
Elbows and arms express a wider world, shoulders
telling sensual tales – weapons, adventures, strength,
lovely sticks to wave the hands with,
writing invitations, wicking tension,
carrying saints.

Torso, mother lode of movement,
sending messages out to hands and knees,
powering shoulders and thighs,
make all breathe and pulse, starting ripples
like a crowd at a baseball park,
wave moving out until it shoots sparks
off the fingertips.

Finding the niche in the music
Where the butt goes,
Like starting an engine, plugging in
the electric guitar, floor polisher,
toaster and Christmas lights,
all at once.

Legs sent out like cavalry, sheriff’s posse,
jumper, racer, steeplechaser,
or maybe the repressed tango of dressage,
desire in dress blues,
drumming the rhythm, carrying the drums.
claiming space and relinquishing,
feet flattening the earth,
patting it down, friendly patterns
like honeybees, seasonal winds,
the Gulf Stream thawing England
into that Island of green and roses,
every summer without fail.

Dancing with? Well sure, honey.
A mirror for my beat. other half of the castanet,
please god and amen, snap the fingers,
ask me in, ask me out, sit me down, pass you by,
ring it out, ring it out,
shu-shu-shur and gone.