The circle dance forever seeking its perfection,
A fleeting, silent and anonymous collection
Of wary dancers weaving in, then letting go,
In search of rapture from the self as though
They were the measures of their predilection.
When their overtly nonchalant inspection
Falls short, or their approach might bring rejection,
They feign indifference, and they will forego
The circle dance forever seeking its perfection.
The dancehall’s dimness eases their selection
Of prospects, would-be sources of affection,
Late-summer gossamer that breezes blow
Across their skin while briefly static waters show
In swaying shadows framing their reflection
The circle dance forever seeking its perfection.
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