For P.M.B.

In an orchestra of limbs

You cannot help but skip on every other beat.
Your steps are a measure of notes, your hands
accents and crescendos; violas of movement
in an orchestra of limbs. Precise moments see you
wholly in air, prepared only for descent and timing.
There is no despair in your movement
and freedom is as envied as it is necessary.
You are a rare anatomy of music and
you never fail to make my night with that.

Searching each other's movements
for the meaning all we ever find is each other
and the urgency of drums. It is starting to fragment:
my arm is your keyboard, please be content.
The air is my trombone; the air is your guitar.