Dance

I should write with my finger tips
and replace every language expression
with my red cheeks, my emerald eyes,
my lips, my upside down mind focused
in raw meat, eggs and politics.

I should turn corners on my bicycle,
load my kitchen cupboards
with bread, and wood panels,
eat strawberries and Mexican food
and dance the tango,
with sleepers instead of
high hills,
 turn towards my partner and leap into his shoes
mumbling and humming into his ear:
there will be other nights and days
midnights and early mornings
to feel alone and indisposed,
but as I hold you by your waist
as my face deepens into your chest
I am out of breath and my legs trembled
Around this rooms you scattered your broken fingers
weeping , speaking quietly with your dishevelled hair
those steps well lived are suddenly anew.

You have smelled my armpits as
if you were gathering living flowers,
I should say in a roundabout way
I am deeply moved.