SEISEN IS DANCING

Seisen has a long body.

Her shaved head

threatens the skylight

and her feet go down

into the apple cellar.

When she dances for us

at one of our infrequent

celebrations,

the dining hall,

with its cargo of weightless monks

and nuns,

bounces around her hips

like a Hula Hoop.

The venerable old pine trees

crack out of sentry duty

and get involved,

as do the San Gabriel Mountains

and the flat cities

of Claremont, Upland

and the Inland Empire.

Ocean speaks to ocean

saying, What the hell,

let's go with it, rouse ourselves.

The Milky Way undoes its spokes

and cleaves to Seisen's haunches,

as do the worlds beyond,

and worlds unborn,

not to mention darkest holes

of brooding anti-matter,

and random flying mental objects

like this poem,

fucking up the atmosphere.

It's all going round her hips,

and what her hips enclose;

it's all lit up by her face,

her ownerless expression.

And then there's this aching fool

over here, no, over here

who thinks that

Seisen's still a woman,

who's trying to find a place to stand

where Seisen isn't Dancing.