by Philip Quinlan

Sight is as sound is. I make the comparison
watching you weave between tables in waltz time;

the tune that you move to inaudible:
natural motion, not practised at all.

Out of the ordinary, into the memory,
all the while smiling, you turn on a dime

and you know, all at once, I am guilty of everything.
Just like a woman to watch me free fall

as you lead and I follow: an old tune, a commonplace
story, a fiction (new readers start here):

you waiting on tables, me wishing lost time away,
dancer and daydreamer, answer and call.

Out of the ordinary something came shimmering,
suddenly saddening, suddenly clear.

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