We were dancing, the whole group of us –

it was dark but for laptop dj and circuitry of light

in everyone’s eyes, and in that moment

when flesh gathered practically in midair,

ascendant on Prince or Petty or Pretenders,

I just went ahead and took it to mean

Resurrection’ll look like some such

when it finally happens,

no longer words aflame on hallowed page

or hallucination rumored and exegeted forever but

a shimmying across a big room somewhere,

or outside under sycamore and storm of starlight,

but either way using materials at hand,

a real earth where each vintage body and agile soul

is keeping time, counting it down

and letting it go, with a disco ball hanging high

under the support beam from a real nail.


© copyright 2019 Ray Waddle