you can't put what
is blooming in you
back anymore than
you can stuff the
explosion of cherry
back into the branches
they explode from.
It takes over. No
matter this tango
isn't in any dance
floor, couples in a
swirl of sweat and
incense, thighs
scissoring thighs. If
I had long black
hair there'd be
licorice flying, a
lasso to pull his
hip to mine. But
there's never enough.
If you could tango
under the blank
silk of his body,
your legs a have a
heart trap. Still,
fantasy is the only
place you can keep him
