April 23, 1994

In dance, our vines take root eager for heat and damp,
seeking specific intimations of ourselves with earth.

Vines sing shapes, obvious forms their branches upturned
limbs contorted, outstretched in a broad dead run away

Or from particular, deep story. A solitary dancer in golden
dress whose limbs point to the earth against a dusty rose.

Above smoke fills space between shapes with grey, blue.
The area amongst the limbs tells the story. Near the top

Dancers nearly touch their elbows, in between lower
reaches of their trunks, a contour like a flower, a petal,

A seed pod flames. The vines don’t dance together, yet
lift their shapes in answer to life’s startling rattle call—

A drought, flood, fire. All forms turn away— save
a golden one trimmed in green, pulsing life through

a scene, pouring champagne at weddings, brandy after miscarriages, sherry at Christmas, port after the funeral.