The most perfect poem is the one that cares to live. Will you dance with me, then, under the stars in the city or the cemetery, paint it with our breath and the warmth of our bodies so that all the things that have no center and no being can turn around, become a part of us? There is music in this. That kind of art is born of time; it bodies out its own measures and rhythms, whole landscapes rise up to give it form, so long as those forces entrain us.
Pointless points become radiating spirals, the traces of our heels as we turn around each other, those light steps are borne up to melodies that resonate in the shared space between us. At any distance, the wound of division is healed the moment I fall into you; we syncopate and move–two stars in a darkness that bend to make room for the gravity that forms to bind us.