by Theodora Goss
I am dancing with your shadow in perfect three-four time,
while violins are playing a cacophonous, sublime
waltz that sounds like caterwauling, and the constellations chime.
He has eyes like flecks of silver in a face as dark as night,
and he holds me in a grip that is just a little tight.
I can’t tell if what I’m feeling is terror or delight.
The dancing floor is floating beneath a pitted moon
that looks down in consternation at the madness of the tune,
the precision of the dancers, moving as though one.
The floor is made of darkness, the walls carved out of space,
there are no violinists but they never lose their place,
and your shadow is a vision of sinister grace.
For all my faults and follies, I will try to make amends,
forgive my dearest rivals, confront my nearest friends,
if I can keep on dreaming and the music never ends.
(The image is Les Feuilles Mortes by Remedios Varo.)