52/365

do you ever dance 
with erasure dust — 
your fingers stuck 
on skin, following 
its fall 
off the table. 
darkness in distance, 
it’s distance, 
never there 
anymore. 

sometimes I dance across a piece of paper, 
skipping the river of smooth white bed sheets. 
why does everything lead to what is so sexual?
or are we going back to the beginning?
or are we never going back? 

[image: Alyn Carlson]