From Wild Love, 1996, by Nancy Wood (unpublished)
He never dances, except with me, in
a swirl of love and half-remembered music
that pours from his lips as he turns me
toward him like a bird. His is not a dancer’s body,
but that of a man accustomed to living life
in the raw. He is clumsy on his feet and cannot
keep rhythm to the simplest tune. The peculiar grace
of men in love saves them from awkwardness,
especially when women don’t notice
the way such creatures
trample on their feet.