Darkness.

The air is cool,
a powder-blue spot
soaks the black
with hush.

The sharp rap of heels
across the stage,
picked up by the mic as I near.

No one.

The hall is empty,
save the light-man
and me.

Dance.

Arms and legs cross,
I carve graceful lines,
pirouette.

And rest.

Darkness,
the air is cool . . .

© Carlos Chagall, 2013