The drama and thunder of it—
trance-like
when the notes sing sadly,
seem to pluck themselves
from weeping fingers,
when the wails of passion
get inside the hips,
become the bend of wrists,
the fistful of ruffles—
how unapologetic
the stomps are,
the throbs
of a furious pulse,
the exactitude of hands
that don´t stop clapping
until the blood reaches
its final fevered pitch:
a pose of breathlessness,
a sculpture gasping
with life.
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