that dance

What was it that flitted between us
like some disoriented humming bird
transferring pollen and tragedies and comedies
through a breathless swirl of late nights,
dark bedrooms and perplexing glances.
That winter night had a bite to it that
turned our flesh and doubts to ice and you
explained to me how in this cold there was no need
to stand apart and would I like to dance?

Now summer's swallowed winter whole and washed it down
with an antacid and some heartache, leaving
nothing but a whistful blur of bus-stop goodbyes,
placements of fingertips and destinationless conversations.
Tonight we sit on the dock dangling our feet and hearts
above the harbour water, which in the dark
looks very much like molasses and we watch
the shimmering reflections upon it of lights from
buildings and ships a thousand worlds away.

My arm is brushing yours and somehow all
that comes to mind with any clarity
is how you keep a step ahead of me when we walk down the streets
and of the way you always get angry when
I try to open the curtains to the morning,
and an image of a hummingbird, burried,
frozen
beneath a mountain of yesterdays, because,
you know, we never did dance.