They saw each other in the dark. Their wings as wreaths for vows,
a felled tree turned down by a hurricane posed ready
to marry them — their Dance reels like the timbre of empty bottles of cider
and swallows whole as if the darkness knows the shadows of the two lovers
A flight pattern the color of pomegranates against the heart saddles
(these are below the throat) of the pair grows as she watches him
spin for her, attempt to spell her into the natural equation of what makes
their genes burn, their feathers flutter.
They’ll keep dancing over and over the widths of street
to street, hurtling bravely as we all do
into each other.