Swan Lake
__________________________________________

                  for C.

The night is loose as a dancer’s joints
so I trip on my coat, but we’re graceful

swans, you and I, when we finally strip
off our clothes and leap into Lake Michigan,

risking sexually transmitted hypothermia.
The night bends backwards

like a broken elbow and takes us over
the cusp of pain into an ether

where other people deal with life
(slather on Oil of Olay, give birth)

and we’re free for sex with no strings
hooked to our backs. This is real flying,

not like the stage Peter Pan: we can lift
ourselves over the waves with our hands.