And one and two

and three and four,
said the helpful nameless stranger.
I wanna know more,
where it all comes from
before the Before,
where what you call work
hangs out with lore.
Is there a map
a burlap sack
and a two-by-four
bound in a shoulder strap?
And do you know where you’re going, yet,
where you'll be after that,
'cos I may wanna follow
something different from the pack.

(two weeks of summer sweat in held palms
leak down legs: a seasonal science
or two lost parts in sun-flare defiance)  

So, what, they swing you senseless,
return you neat,
roll you from their arms
back into the beat,
where pushpin baskets
catapult hatchbacks
into shoulder slides
and side-to-sides,
and then you go eat?

No.

Well, I slow down the present with stopwatch starts,
teethe under lamplight, write in the dark.
Your no suggests you can get lost in these self same steps
so I wanna be your blur, your stitch,
and that last one-and-a-two.
What I'm trying to say is
I wanna go dancing with you.