BALLROOMS

Skim over shining marbles, face to face
with your too-perfect partner; stand before
the crystalline reflection, their embrace
as near and necessary as the floor.

Within the muscle-theatre, its walls
white, windowless and unforgiving, peers
the eye of Euclid, from which radiant ball
the serve returns to o such raqueteers.

This is the mirror’s kingdom; nimble planes
here catch and multiply, engage our glance
and goings. Hard the silver, cold the panes
where (double, double) all the senses dance.

Enough: roll back the galleries of glass.
As, frame on frame, the images retire
from this and every stage, what darknesses
collect beyond the sightlines, holding fire.