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RUTH DAIGON
TO HELL WITH THE REVOLUTION IF I CAN'T DANCE
Emma Goldman
In a place between places, she bathes
in miles of wind with milk-
white linen to wick her dry.
Out of wild pockets through spiraling
light into ardent worlds
she searches for him, humming
I am your match,
your mate, your other self,
the dark inside where sight fails.
They meet, he invites her
to the dance
and their myth begins.
With greenglass hearts
and untamed thunder, they
dance past the left hand of light,
air still, time slack,
as the sun ticks
and the rain hums take it easy.
Past the eyes of the forest,
the tongues of the sea, they drift
over earth's spine
timing steps to ghost music
where love spins its web in a wind
anchored in thorns.
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