Dark Dance

I may be
dark dance,
but I do
somewhat move.

I might be
sick with trance,
but I am
not altogether unmoved —

even muscles stiff as this
have memory
of twitching and start
pulsing, so slowly

that to see them
one might think of corpse
or perhaps coma. But
they’re not —

can’t explain
how they think
of these things:
my brain isn’t theirs,

but they do.  And thus
my back against this wall,
tarantella-charged.
I am not unmoved,

merely sunk in, dark dance 
wallflower before ordinary
ecstasies of quotidian
minuet.  It’s just this:

I seek frenzy again
as I once knew it,
and this, I see,
is not.