The Dancer in Black

Under a windy Orion
four shadowy walkers
glide smoothly over
pavement and curb—
streetlights and I
show them where they must fall,
where converge.
Between solemn strides
I practice my spins—
not gracefully, as you did.
I confuse the air—
you left it clean and calm
as I remember…

Dressed in black
you passed like a cloud
through the company of dancers
from wing to wing
pausing now, a pirouette,
now a triple tour en l’air:
a blur of precision,
a whirling
so swift that human eyes
see only a still point
(for it is in whirling very fast
that stillness is revealed).
This is what my soul longs to do:
to spin, to know its own stillness—
but I could not tell whether this,
or simply to watch you was my desire.
“Teach me a pirouette (slowly, be patient)
and I will teach you a song,
note by note—
the music I heard as your
sweet darkness passed over me.”

When the curtain took you
my widowed eyes strained
to see past folds of velvet
where you paused
to breathe:
you breathed, while I could not—
I could not rest until
your noble, gold-crowned figure
appeared once more—
like a winter cloud, dark with its load
of pristine whiteness—
alabaster crystals
scattered from your arms
shimmering in the air
fluttering from your fingers—
then its coolness was upon me
and I rested once more.

My eyes are searching still
but the clouds are now too white,
bearing only the dark rain
and I strain, breathless,
restless,
knowing that somewhere
behind folds of velvet
you breathe