In this world, we are each
an ocean unto ourselves.
 
              What is a body of water
              but fluid atoms longing to
​
dance? In this world, we
are at rest with our bellies
 
              to a cold azure ground,
              arms pulling us where 
 
our legs cannot in an
imitation of a weary pirouette.
 
              There is a dance for
              every tide. There is a
 
god above us so large that
it is a stage light without
 
              a form. In this world, the
              god orbits us. In this world,
 
yes is not an answer
but a means of escape.
 
              In the dreamscape, it is enough
              to say I love you and goodnight
 
and the world will not weep
or erupt except for the one
 
              cupped in your clavicle, and
              we dance and
 
we dance and we dance and
we are never tired or alone.