its walls my own bearing and firmness,
fright impelling me, and her arms embrace
themselves in a return motion without me,
her whisper inward, "Die, you must die,
you are the shape ofthis disease,"
and in my very fright, unable to bear the voice,
I reach out, as when walls loom upon the insane;
reach out and hold those arms,
and my own voice whispers in the ecstasy
that fright has awakened, "Live, it is your own
impulse, your arms are for lifting
and your voice speaks." The silence of her reply
is her answer, it pauses
to
grasp what has been said
to make it pause, while each successive moan
and motion of the arms, from memory, are halted
by my impulse, each motion weaker than the last
in my grip.
And now they are dancing together,
it began in a slow mournful weave
away from one another, as they held hands.
In this motion, suddenly aware of the rhythm
of worry, they accentuate it, out of pleasure
expressing themselves. The pleasure becoming
pronounced by repetition and heightened
awareness, the two swing off into a celebration
of the sorrow that has proclaimed itself.
It
gives way to excitement of the steps
that led to it, and instead of weaving
and swaying, now bound off the floor
from short and breathless loops of sprung belief.
They will touch the ceiling of this paradise
by successive leaps, each building upon the last.
*
