The warm leaves got to watch you dance
and the ground beneath you kept time
with its own molten heartbeat -- so --
The earth mothered you to scamper
animal nimble under its ancient growth
sleeping through your skinned knees
and girl-throated birdsong, and
none of us truly enjoy perfection
There is a cultivated kindness in me
scientific method of loss and love
skin petal observations, fine-grained sorrows
ale brewed, stars wandering, warranties long expired
A confusion of red corpuscle reactor rods
dampened by Canadian frosts and made
into a specific, holy heart's furnace
tempered, held steady by your silences
Where the cells, each fired by the next
got to watch you dance as
my own molten heart keeps time
I will never see your private dance.
The universe can not really understand perfection.
But I will try.