of vintage a Two Buck
Chuck boogies like a teen at prom.
The gustatory cells
hula and google like novas
and the body waltzes toward evening
as ligaments spring to keep up
counting “one-two-three  
one-two-three.”  Oh my God
or whatever dance tops the card
and tips the fiddler’s bow.
The wind raves rolling
and laughs away commas
mothers hung on clothes lines
warning countries and buildings
crumble and sputter.
Oceans stroke swimmers
and veins draw a conga line
to the heart’s pestle as we cavort
shimmy shake and quiver
between damp sheets and dreams
conducting the touching symphony
of bodies in counterpoint.