steps

bend of ear
curl of foot
meet of minds
falling into rhythm

corners, turns,
gatherings and returns,
nothing is the same
except the things that are

how we live
is our own poem,
what we show to the world

sometimes we are compelled
to turn it into shapes, steps,
tunes, spaces, words,
multicoloured and gaunt
and psychedelic and plain
and all stops along the way

I have forgotten more
than I will never know,
nightstepping,
lightstepping,
into the night

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