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
into shoulder slides
and then you go eat?
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.