Dancing to Dorsey


You’re an Irish nurse in London,
I’m a cowboy/fighter pilot from Montana.
You ask me about New York,I say you belong on Broadway.
You say you see the sky when you look into my eyes.
The hot August night is cooled only by our breath,
As we whisper our fears into submission,
Give of ourselves with ancient familiarity.

Your hair smells like a birch on fire,
You say I smell like leather and gasoline.
Together we burn and blaze our way through hours,
One moment at a time.

I remember the wail of the air raid sirens,
You pull me from our bed,
With a kiss that lingers on my lips.
Dancing to Dorsey,naked as the moon,
the stars are our only witnesses.
Afterwards, the cigarette we share,
Is the only light in a darkened city.

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