In a room full of people dancing—a dark and pulsing room where each and every dancing dancer hears what she hears. There are as many songs in here, perhaps, as there are fingerprints. For this one here in the black sweater dress, it’s all drums, it may as well be all drums. She feels the drumming in her joints—in the connective tissue of her elbows, her knee ankle neck bones. She rattles like dry sticks with this rhythm, like dry sticks strung together and hung in the wind, she rattles. The hollow clack of her own desert bones by god she thinks these lights sure are flashing I need to get laid.
He hears mostly saxophone meanwhile. His eyes closed in brief solitude across from her he sees the starry starry night sky the sax is black honey slowly slowly down his arm and long leg muscles. He sees the night sky then her wispy bangs her brown brown eyes. Sky, eyes, sky, the honey through his legs he is ready for anything next really: for pancakes or kissing. Digging up sod even. His limbs full and curious. Whatever is next starry starry night sky her brown brown eyes, he reaches for her hand. Black honey.