The words fly towards me,
swirl around me
like moths
around a lantern
in a late summer night.
Disordered dance,
neither Jenka nor disco .
Possibly Square Dance:
I realize that to some extent
I can control the words
and their order
like the Caller:
Allemande Left;
Heads Promenade!
Confused, I write
a few lines
and go back to sleep.
In the morning
I discover silver dust
on my hands.
The delicate words
have colored my fingers.