A spurt,
staccato
as a tango hip's lip
jutting into promenade.
Late March, overnight
the wild plum swells.
Buds on the verge of,
dancers about to.
When he moves your
hips with his, the
sudden opening. What
couldn't stay contained,
what couldn't wait in
a cocoon of longing,
what winter kept
closed as a fist, suddenly
sheds everything that
held it, explosive
as tango or a woman
with her skirt at
her ankles, able to
just move with him
