This is called "Jazz Dancer."
"I have a theory about motion.
I have a theory about the air.
I have a theory about main arteries and bass lines.
I have a theory about Friday night.
Just a theory, mind you, about a dry mouth
and certain kinds of thirst.
And the once a month bulge of money
in a working pair of pants.
I have a theory about kisses.
The way a man draws a woman--" I'm sorry.
"The way a woman draws a man across a dance floor
like a ship approaching a new world.
I have a theory about space and what's
between the space, and an idea about words.
A theory about balance and the alphabet.
A theory concerning electricity and the tendons.
A hunch about long glances from across a ballroom,
even though there's a man on her arm,
even though there's a woman on his arm.
And fire.
And the ocean, stars, and earthquakes.
Explosions as sharp as new clothes off the rack.
When I leap, brushes strike the lip of a symbol.
When I leap, a note cuts through glass.
When I leap, a thick finger dreams on a bass string.
And all that sweat, all that spittle,
all those cigarettes and cheap liquor,
all that light hearted sass and volcanism,
all that volatile lipstick.
All that cleaves the air the way a man and woman sweet talk
in a bed.
When I leap, I briefly see the world as it is
and as it should be.
In the street where I grew up, the saxophones, kisses,
and mysteries among the houses, and my sister
dressing in front of a mirror.
A secret weapon of sound and motion.
A missionary in the war against the obvious."