Because there is no ground
but the dancing between us:
Stars flare and fizzle like matches.
The authorized histories step in, step out, do-si-do.
The bedrock waves Bye! as it vanishes.
All the needs hokey and shake, with their best angles in.
No ground at all
but the language-frail rafts of our capering.
Pelvises scissor and coo down the long night of crossroads.
Ova sink into their walls and initiate toes.
Certainties bleed like a newly-flensed romance:
Who am I – now that she’s gone? Who are you?
Good questions circle and slide
off the Opera House jetty.
And there’s no ground but leaning/half-falling
towards-and-away from our recusant others.
No ground but legs and their fancywork, bones and their song.