Last tango in Venice
An Argentine mist rises
over Piazza San Marco
braces a drawing room
lined with arcane arches
and stirring tandas.
A dancer strides under
the moon lamps
leads a blushing man,
spreading into autumn,
out from a grand café.
This raven-haired willow
in short, red skirt
keeps him close
walks a rhythmic pulse,
ankles and knees brushing
as one leg passes the other,
toe of her stiletto
drawing patterns on the tiles.
Eyes almost touching lips
she tugs and pushes
turns and dips, hesitates
elongates in slow measured moves
keeps him close,
chest-to-chest,
like a visual heart-to-heartbeat
a living act smouldering
in his moment.
In failing days
he would ask his ashen-faced visitors
Have you ever danced the tango in
Witchcraft
The night I landed in Kilanerin
tangled in oak and willow
I heard the screech of a banshee.
Raddled soul of death
she pierced the air
in her grey hooded cloak
or maybe the shift of the unshriven dead -
though I did not witness her.
Prophetic screams disturbed
my moon that night
loosened the dust from its fringe
to fall upon the wings
of an unsuspecting barn owl
hunting the dusk
for his snoring brood’s tea
scaring the bejeyus out of me.
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