Girls just like to dance
to the politics,
wear the stamina
of a rosy Spain pear,
each one a clerk and tangle
of facets and fatalism.
Girls gleaming with Pavlovian
automatic, lubricated and absent,
posies for the camera, a tonic flash
like fireflies, fever moths,
Then belle and belle in the snow—
smooth as jeweled hands over a mine
beneath Dickens, dismantling
the music with unfocused meticulous.
Public and nocturnal,
girls just like to dance
to the plotlines of gadgetry,
from bridle to girdle,
each hoping the butter unbeaten
by life spreads on morning toast.
Yet we have text in our eyes
and celosia smiles. Your record
is on and the dance floor
your aquarium: your operatic hair
silks new notches
in the air behind you.