Dancing

I am done
With 'being-always-outward'.
Books line the shelves like a reproach
And all I can see is dancing, dancing.

There were memories, once
Of things now forgotten
And of birds
And of nothing at all

There were memories
Of light in a child's bedroom
Of a hand on my mottled cheek
Of you, dancing,
Dancing.

Now all the books are trying to say one thing
To be one book
Because something must replace the loss.
Dance, dance.