dancing in the dark is its own sweet frolic
even when partly lit by market lights.
apples and onions are close by degree
but do not draw the opposites we see
on a white canvas that dances mundane
where nothing at all by daylight shows
unless you count a steely gear of sweat
that counts for a blue dream fit to a day-
at end of the dancing begins at dusk
and, almost scarlet, lasts the all night
the alien fingers beckon leafy
but are seem to leave at dawn.