I’ve started having dreams about you again.
Which is funny, because I don’t think about you
as much as I used to. You must be
somewhere around my knees, somewhere
I don’t bother looking often, but somewhere
that wakes up when I dance.
Remember when we were drunk and
dancing in the bar and there was
no music playing? All those scientists
had just got done with their convention
and were watching us. Let’s be odd
tropical birds again, engaged
in an esoteric mating ritual.
Our veins become conga drums.
This isn’t for people with words
or degrees. This is for those animals
who can survive in the desert,
the swamplands, the arctic.
This is for those animals
that panther cried in us
when I first saw you
dancing all alone.