Back to the body

We make movement sentences,
phrases strung in motion:
low forms, the crescent of feet,
the grammar of backs, of bone.
Arguments edging a line,
oscillating and arching,
as if to say yes and no at once.

Little bouts; these dynamic intimacies.
How abruptly they can cease.
I’ll eat the blueberries that run along the floor,
and drink tap water from a dirty glass;
savouring the reek of hops and sour.
I try not to wonder, what I want.
Let's give that question up, and,
step back,
back to the body.

More often now,
I think of the hard pressure of body weight on tip-toe.
Subtle conversations, I suppose.