vasodilator

one: the courtyard

the clouds were tangible objects,
solid masks revealing and concealing the moon's
face, teasing like live things in a spinning world. 
under an overhang, the lithe purveyor gave away spirits for 
hard currency, cautious to bite a suspected
slug-coin. some of these intoxicants took you above,
releasing you from gravity's jealous entanglements
slowing the frantic, desperate world's rotation,
but the preferred stock, she said knowingly to me,
winking as though i were a co-conspirator,
was a heavy spirit, addictive, weighing in your center
like a glowing moon-rock, solid.

two: the anteroom

she ushered me in, excited, to the building, lit in a way 
i'd always imagined an opium den would be. familiar,
she touched my arm, stroked my shoulder and my hair,
comforting. she moved her arm to the music, paused,
began to dance. spinning slowly, cautiously like unwinding
the earth's spring, trying to slow a world in its orbit,
she hummed along with a melody: blue, an aimless tune
which met with the back beat every few measures,
or whenever she cared to meet it. 

three: interior

further we dove through a hallway, a rich satin atmosphere 
colored in unknown shades; i saw her reach through the passage,
touch a drop of syrup to my lips, muttering a prayer. 

this was the heavy spirit, the luscious taste she promised.
it struck a vein, rushing through my body's sewers,
redistributed generously, widening passages, dilating my pupils
like my eyes would give birth.

four: the dance floor

at length, she stopped. her eyes met mine, expectant. a brow lifted,
her hand gestured expansively into the deeper room, where melody
met back beat. her hand touched a woman dancing, who leaned
against it, under the aegis of the loving owner. i burst. i'd seen the woman
dancing many times, her movements were different, her face as well;
my recognition under the glare of bright music and melody
was her posture. before, her hair was a mandarin red, rich like fading
sweet syrup. before, her eyes were green and vast, empty as an ocean of grass.
before, her arms swayed seductively, her lips curled in an alluring smile, 
a temptation to make me weep. the woman dancing was none of these, 
only her posture leaning against the protective hand betrayed her identity. 
as the owner withdrew her hand,  the woman dancing spun away, 
slowing the earth by force of will.

five: substructure and infrastructure

we withdrew outdoors, leaving the known, unfamiliar 
woman dancing, her eyes closed, in communion with the beat, conscientiously
slowing the world. under the strobed glow of candles, 
the purveyor touched her lips to my hand,
my hand to her closed eyes, teaching me how to contain the colors
and sensations, like she knew me through and through, 
like she had explored me in the drop of heavy thick syrup.
she knew i was to assemble an addition to the building,
word upon word, piling glowing moon-rocks one atop another.

i carelessly accelerated the spinning world, so the purveyor
could sell her spirits of levity and gravity, so the woman dancing
could sway and smile, enticingly undoing the harm i'd wrought.

©2000 Timothy A. Clark