There may be a destination—
indistinct, beyond the horizon but
we are unconcerned. It is the movement
of the limbs—legato as they say in music
when the drumbeat softens to a brush
and the strings hum on one note
extended like the footsteps lingering
among the frangipanis, the elegant shade
in counterpoint to the slant of sun.
The lovers swing their arms in 4/4 time,
feet in synchronicity. There is no future
on this night when lengthening shadows
disappear inside the moon, and the river
doesn’t know its source, content with being
who it is, like the figures, alone and then together
moving in and out of trees on the white
pebbled path. They meet and touch. A cello
dips and prays. The bow remains significant
after the sound is gone. What is walking but
the baseline from which notes like flagged irises
bloom, decorous and sweet like the line becoming
curve, becoming whisper of the body slicing
the night into friendly overtures, proud feet
walking the tender octaves, the green swales.
