Swirls of masked dancers,
barely aware themselves,
confused and competing,
leading, jostling, following,
no reason.

We dance to beat the heart,
to rush the rivers,
push the wind,
and fuel the fire
in our core.

We don’t know why,
we are merely motion,
just a body grasping
for something
inexpressible.

(The first draft of this poem emerged from a group exercise with the kind folks at Charles House, Chapel Hill. It underwent radical revision with a bottle of wine and further refinement at a workshop. Thanks to all my co-poets!)