for THE HUDDLED

This never happened,

that things are as they are

because we changed

out of jumpsuits.

 

Dancers, staged to question, 

improvised.

What more instrumental

than the body?

 

One person's expressions

become an ensemble’s

disclosure through abandon

meant of form.

 

We dreamt of scattered presence

re-assembled 

and offered to the self 

(of the audience)

 

Original emotion, 

shaped by attention

and instantly focused  

here, where we are, as we are seen

 

      *

Bowls sang

for the huddled 

flawed 

on the floor, 

uncoiling heat's 

prodding impetus

 

Sky, as always cold

Each silver breath

a struggle

for memories

etched, then 

let go,

 

separating

into limbs

and airy 

trunks of bodies

widening

proportion,

 

a wanton 

flurry of leaps

no taking eyes 

off movement, 

lifts by

grace of 

simple lines 

their crescendo 

of voices

thrown into a skin

across the mirrored 

sphere aflame

 

      *

 

You touch your feet

with your breath,

ranging with intent

in prophetic space

knowing the cue 

to put up a hand.

 

There are no lights,

but lit by wristbands

and polished nails 

upturned faces beam

 

in moon masks

until the shoulders droop

the back relaxes

and the arms flare

 

elbowing as wings

bank a spiral rise

and fall while hips pivot 

into twice-born throes

 

    *

  

Love lengthened

For sweetness

A season’s snow

Pouring into the river

Fields, roads,

Again flooding.

A twig of brain glows,

fizzles, into honeycomb.

Spinning at far remove

we each take our part

feeding from the palm

of death’s many hands.

 

        

                                - for Michael Chorney