She Dances

She comes at it
with her head to the side
letting her earring dangle
flat against her cheek,
and the other one
bangs like a stove pipe
on a broken stone
as she shearingly thistles;
the music
tears through her,
mindlessly pouring
her strewn locks
back and forth
across his face
as he tries to trace
the meter
of her oscillations.

The silence
of her dancing
algorithms
charms the drummer
as he strokes his sticks
and heads the bass
back
into the catacombs;
a lost Sunday
still feathers
the sheets
in a bristling
tone like a ragtime
gone native
on a hovel
of tired cream.

runningturtle87