Until I tasted basil vodka, I'd never tasted
grassy morning dew bite my throat.
Potato smoke, lingering from crispy latkes
stings our eyes, potato liquor stings our tonsils.
Warm wood floors swoop beneath us,
our madly spinning
tilt-a-whirl made from glowing walls
and glowing faces:
two blurry smiles, flushed with
music and with wonder
at the enchanted ease with which
our bodies understand another's.
Basil liquid loosening hips,
(you too can salsa like Rob Gordon!)
feet finding their own knowledge--
intuition fed by rhythmic freedom--
you watch them but
their elusive magic-making,
the explosive orbital velocities
of two bodies, moving at the speed of love.