Thad Logan

In the big room she moves along the mirrors;
The air is hot with candles and the breath of dancers,
And I watch while the music lifts and twirls her,
The hem of her skirt curling around her heels
Like a ragged, hungry wind.

Lightly he rests his hand on her back.
The mirrors multiply that touch
It flashes out and finds me
In my little velvet chair,
Here at the limits of the evening.

I feel the delicate, inviting friction
As the fabric barely moves against the surface of her skin,
And the faint damp warmth at the S-curve of her spine,
The strength of muscle and bone under the surface,
The quick beats of her heart.

The live connection troubles my peace
sets my nerves ringing
Like the strings of the violins,
Makes little pizzicato stabs
Like the points of her silver shoes.

Poems used with permission of the authors, and may not be re-used without their permission.