His words tiptoe onto my stage -

Like Degas' ballerinas, long stemmed thoughts
crowned with chiffon petals stir, leap;
they skim the mind, flicker, bend, and bow -
The audience of my heart applauds
such graceful moves -

The curtain falls, words undress thoughts,
they wear scarlet silk for a flamenco,
temples knock castanets, blood flounces sway
in hectic tip taps, eyes drown
in the magic -

A twist, a tighter grasp at the cortex -

All cerebral cells gather in rhythmic bump
to the cadence of a tango; my head spins,
mouth gasps for air, the dance engages
body and brain; while bending backward,
my dreams sweep the floor -

Thoughts go fast, turn round and round,
in Black Danube waltzing on a mind
that cannot keep the rhythm;
chaos replaces harmony, I step on my own feet -

My mind, blank, listens for a sound ,
a rattle, a beat to say I am still alive.
In the back stage, thought-dancers are stiff
puppets strangled by wordstrings -

His letter's close: a notice canceling new performances-

Dirt is not more magical
than the hand that hold it.

......... She told me flowers
......... were simply smiles left
..........for strangers --

embroidered rose bud on her left hip pocket -

......... there was no significance,
..........she said.

We discussed the philosophy
of Sam Beckett.
I told her we were all as if Vladimir,
attempting to make paradise
of oblivion.

......... She said I was damned
......... at birth,
......... but she new the formula to salvation.

I was a willing convert,
to her mouth & fingers.

She smiled like a vapor
I could not capture.