englishpoem

It's the music of our dance:

Of your satisfied grunts and muffled chewing.

Our feet never keeping the beat
One and two                                 and                                      crunch crunch.
It's the base,
It's the bass.

And the power lines crackle softly up above.
Normally quiet, muted.

Birds, Birds, little creatures stepping on twigs                              I can hear them
                                                                                                            crack

The wind hits the grass,
It's our piano.
Juvenile plunking of the keys, discoverings.

"rustle, rustle" says my skirt,
chasing the beat of my heart.

Sweaty forehead, sweaty palms.
It drips dows.
Hitting the ground like pearl drops.

We are Beethoven, Bach,
A selfish two.

I am not                         invisible
                           predictable
                woman undesirable
I will only be complete.

We are so quiet, mountains won't echo.
And our music is never recorded.