By It’s like we are in the 1920s, a vintage
noir fabricated by deep shadows and
some lights so bright, you can’t help
but smile. Do they dance, side-stepping,
twirling madly, madly, insanely happy?
No, it’s a courtship.
Eyes imitating thick, rich caramel fogged by
the dense, salient smoke. Mist floods from each drag,
the hot and cold flirt so innocently, so eager with
breathless ambition, only to weave seamlessly
with soft, frisky air.
We made a crooked circle, beats,
the heavy beats control our whirl.
Some pointless babble dribbles from each link,
trying to dilute enchantment
but not at all to interrupt our chase.
LIZ HARDAWAY 