momentary...

I watch the dancer
brown skinned man, distilled
rhythms from Africa, trials of black sails,
as he begins... to spider;

weaves a web I cannot see, resolves
a night long mystery then twists
the turn of a lovers name, mimics
ever gentle lick, flame upon wisp of wind
the bent filament of fire.

I am left to imagine what he has said
with limber arms, so many wishes
pour from his handsome face, rise
from his wistful bed...and so many
eagerly vie for a place
to dance the dance of day
in the long and weary-less night

The story ends, hands curve
arms extend into a perfect arc, lures
to catch a stray angel, lingered too long
lost in the siren songs of passions, fallen
to wonder of the flesh,
this puny and transient flesh,
for the flash of momentary pleasure--exquisite
for the flickered point of experience--so do spirits
travel the agonized length of existence to be
a spark, a candle flame in the deepest black.