i listen for what you hear
in the records
so long living in dust

the blonde model in a dress
satin blue on the cover
her face gently
rippled and shattered
by time and moving

you in thin-aired memory
with a man whose weight is camouflaged
by awkward style-the untouchable clean
of a Sunday suit
on a Saturday night
in the shadow filled gym
that was ballroom

the black man on the organ
works his finger
over his ballad

it coos

and i watch you
from the top of the stairs
take it gently
into your shoulders
and drift across the room
with motion soft as lint

almost tired
with beauty


Yao(Hoke S. Glover III)