I wrote this last year. The finished poem, if a poem is ever “finished” is the first one. It’s followed by the rough draft and various revisions.
STREET DANCE
We have not come so far;
we are so close to home—
our brains—those soft machines—
still live in caves of bones.
There are bears among the stones.
Everyone knows how to dance—
the woman twirling in her short skirt,
her partner in his green shirt,
those flirting girls,
old people and their little dogs,
the children in their wild cavort.
how I got there:
STREET DANCE
At sunset, young animals
make ephemeral alliances
and run and run.
Human children here are doing that now
while adults dance, or watch,
or play in the band.
Everyone knows how to dance,
even the people sitting in the folding chairs
chatting, eating ice cream.
Mostly it works,
what we do. Even though
we’re too far away.
We think we’re here,
but our brains—
those soft machines—
still live in caves of bones.
A tiger behind every tree.
We need mates, enough space
to gather and hunt and defend.
Our children.
Bands of brothers.
A powerful sisterhood.
Sharp memory of every fear.
The gods need room
to speak to us—
they leave spaces in our skulls.
If the gods are gone
we fill the holes ourselves.
What will become of us—
these children in their wild cavort,
the woman twirling in her short skirt
and her partner in his green shirt,
those flirting girls, the old people
in their baseball hats, sitting
on the benches in front of the post office,
holding their little dogs
or resting their hands on their canes.
July 17, 2017
STREET DANCE
Consider: our brains—those soft machines—
still live in caves of bones. We need
mates, children, enough space to gather and hunt.
There are bears among the stones, panthers in the trees.
We remember every fear. The gods
need room to speak to us.
If the gods are gone we fill the holes ourselves.
At sunset, young animals make ephemeral alliances
and run and run. Human children
are running together now while adults
dance, or watch, or play in the band.
Everyone knows how to dance,
even the people in the folding chairs
eating ice cream. Eating ice cream
is another way of dancing.
What will become of us—
the woman twirling in her short skirt,
her partner in his green shirt,
those flirting girls, the old people on the benches
in front of the post office, holding their little dogs
or resting their hands on their canes.
Our children in their wild cavort.
August 28, 2017
STREET DANCE
We have not come so far;
we are so close to home—
our brains—those soft machines—
still live in caves of bones.
There are bears among the stones.
Human children in their tribes
hunt across the green.
We all know how to dance—
the woman twirling in her short skirt,
her partner in his green shirt,
those flirting girls,
old people holding little dogs
or resting their hands on canes.
Young primates in their wild cavort.
undated but with the comment: (Fairly soon, there will be no poem left.)
STREET DANCE
We have not come so far;
we are so close to home—
our brains—those soft machines—
still live in caves of bones.
STREET DANCE
We are so close to home—
our brains—those soft machines—
still live in caves of bones.
September 14
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