A Nightmare
In the turning of night––when opening eyes
do not disturb dreams––it was then
the old man came, ghostlike, as moonlight
transfigured by the blinds shut tight
across my window. Like a poet
fighting against form he struggled
to hold his shape against the blades
turned downwards. I could not move,
nor was there any real image––my mind’s
impression was enough. The thought,
once suggested, could not disappear.
He was there precisely by not being
seen. As the moonlight stretched out
across my bed, it was his hands I felt
wrap around my neck, colder than
the tongue which whispered in my ear.
Johannes (from “The Seducer’s Diary”)
I couldn’t tell you exactly how it’s done
but it’s like dancing––the heaviness of feet
scuffing and stamping with a weight
like glory, bodies holding each other
with a force like gravity. Your right
arm is stiff, the hand pressing against
my shoulder. I wish it was resting. You
come to trust me and I spin you in tight
circles, recall you back into a triple-step,
then dip as low as our bodies are able, until
the linoleum shows through your midnight
hair. We stay suspended as the music
continues, leaning out further and further
before I think I might lose balance and let
you go. But your body is lighter than the steps
you take. I pull you back into the triple-step,
we switch partners. The rest of the night, I
remember how it felt, holding you parallel
between the world and me. I wonder if
I brought you low enough, teaching you
to love the only dance we’ll take.