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In movement,
in genuflection of curved air
         they remember
the bodies of children,
closed eyes lit by notes
          of lost song
curved silent
curve again -
into vaulted space, shadows dance across
trappings of failed religions, question
bleached impressions of icons - remnants
of a first forgiveness,
                                          a last confession,

the second and last coming defined in
turned tone

turn again -
into the morning where
                            ash road patterns
pass windmills brooding, like vacant crosses
on the Appian Way but they dance forward
through a sea of corn, centurion stalk-spears
where do you take
                                your rhythms?
                which of you
                                is the leader?

what truths
               do you hope to find?
The sun with all its power to gift life, deny days
or quicken death, blesses motion repeated
               by the dancers, arouses the grain husk wind
to lift dust to
                          camouflage their hearts.
Keepers of movement - 
be our futures, 
remember us,
               embrace our past of
danced rhythmic

dance again -
at the rise of the moon to guide feet
on journeys deemed impossible in sun’s glare
where rhythm must be light for footsteps,
in darkness to outline gestures, the fusion
               of phosphorous and vaulted moon.
Dancers understand steps
              they choose,
know where paths will
                              take them,
to where journeys
               demand breath, poise,
& silent space at its solemn velvet edge,
to where feet stop memories dissolving
one by one, eyes open, finding lost song,
turning our pasts, one by one
turn again
return to the path
    for in tomorrow’s trinity,
silent reflection,
    tone genuflection,
    rhythmic inquisition
will return in movement
Jim Mackintosh

of navigation

              hush standing,
                            seaward facing

with palms inward yet expectant,
they are the paths to the corrosion, cleaves
that each rhythm maker has come to heal
in an act of unity.
Dance the union
the winds.
    The spray has
                      soft hooks:
the ocean - the muscles an element
of deep dark and cliffs mocking
the innocents light.
Nothing of rock determines ways, only
                                            the roof of clouds
dreamt in the run can choke the reality
of their journey. 
Dance the touch
In the gloom the chaos
unravels, and the dark speaks:
Listen to the dark
                   the voices
of ancestors
                   whisper up
The weaves of crevice are mouths to pasts,
the arteries to our tomorrows.
Dance the union of ancestor to the unborn.
Is the horizon
                       We will know
soon enough.
              the distance
– close
the mystery.
Jim Mackintosh