my veins is a dance in the moonlight of skin,
quivering in the wake of anticipation, as
a sudden tremor quakes the ground beneath our feet.
the nascent republic, is, as always --
a lush underground of stalwart possibilities,
taking shape as each wrist flick of the brush
colours the skies and the angry twilight,
with showers of purple, red and tawny haze.
Where does it start, the horizon and its end?
in the veins that dance in the skin's twilight,
in the song that simmers on wine reddened lips,
in the long, slow instance between then and now.