In passing

As if to glance were to know:
the night a spot of ink on our lips,
and aloof, motionless dancing;
the danger being what dance
and when, and though your eyes
are courage enough for apologies
in retrospect, I worry mine
are clumsy shoes, empty spaces:
those very kinds of rusted pennies
we imagine could be peonies,
and maybe even were once, but
now find their place in the mud,
kicked from hole to hole,
trusting a stranger’s hand
to know their chant of bronze.

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