I love most in myself
the things that have been crippled for years

the way I adore the twisted branch
on the maple tree outside my house

that does not leaf out until late in spring
and is the first to drop leaves in the fall

the twisted branch that I hold my breath for
every year hoping I will not need to cut it down

and it has never disappointed me
although it has frightened me

I love most in myself the twisted things
that recall their purpose at opportune times

when the way is risky
and there’s no turning back

I love these old tools
that sit in my hand so well

like a secret in the lines of my palm
or the secrets in another’s hand

With a bandoneon, a guitar,
and a simple brushed snare
playing behind them,
the man and the woman
slip across the dance floor
toward the cream-yellow patch
on the far side, away from the tables
of the artists and poets, away
from the lights and the half-empty
glasses, they move against each other
and together as if the night was
pressed solid against them, pushing them
together, their faces
twinned and close, they move across
red tile to the edge of the
sand, her toe hangs above while his
dips a little in,
her leg entwines his and disentangles
as quickly, and they circle the rim
as the music stays simple and pulls
them around together, sliding
against the possibility
of stepping too far into the danger
of the night, their hands moving across
their bodies as they dance away from the
tables of the onlookers and
pretend that
the hard floor is all there is,
even with the quicksand inches away;

but the music is lovely, and she
is lovely, and he thinks
he is close enough to lovely
to make it to lovely someday;

and they dance all around the quicksand,
tango far away from the other tables,
circle and turn together against each other
while the guitar and snare drum and bandoneon play.