The sport of dancer’s boots striking the floor,
The sport of hands clasped, a gasp for breath,
The flying trail of sparks from nails on stone,
The secretive slipping past crowds at the door;
The cold night air, the waving trees overhead
In sheltering ditches, in deserted city lanes,
The chase, the catch, the lingering first kiss
Under a crescent moon, the stars gargantuan,
Her dark hall door, blood pulsing with music,
Her eyes gone serious, her bedroom light dim.


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