A Little Gershwin

Purple everything
on stage, except for the blue
spotlight on the bare
chair,
and the woman
and the man who dance.
They are waves.
They are lovers.
They are waves.
And every light is purple,
silvering blue on them,
except her arms
that are brown
and her hands
that are brown
and that cup the air
with such weight.

At the dance’s end
I ask you, “Was
that really you?”
“Yes,” you say,
and your hands
and their fluencies
bring me to you,
and your hands
fan and glide
over my back.
I am growing
wings.

*next*