Dawn at the Disco

Dawn at the Disco

Each is with no one, and no one is touching.
We call it dancing.
We call it, 'having a good time'.
Yet talk is useless,
and shouting lacks a certain something.

Now dawn arrives, Aurora of old;
always, she comes in hope.
She slips through the grill
of our cosy iron door
that's barred the world till now;
creeps through, slant, stealthy as a cat,
drops to the floor, then rises
to begin her diurnal strip.

All amid the thunder, without demur,
without ceremony nor fanfare,
she glides between the shades,
removing each perfume-misted garment.

First the garland from her yellow hair,
then the girdle from waist,
bangles from wrists, arms and ankles.
All are like rainbow threads of escaping breath
as she swoops to every corner of the room.

You sense violets, thyme, wild rose, woodbine;
hear songbirds wake in far-off spinneys.
First the blackbird, then the thrush, and,
last of all, the linnet.

But then your ghoul returns to whisper:
'Still you're with no one,
and no one is touching.'

So often does she dance unnoticed,
with stoic resignation, she collects her things,
then trudges melancholy to the door,
like a bear dragging her pelt.

You alone watch, then follow.
None sees you leave, nor hears your moan.
Though all are sobbing, none is listening.

We came to touch - perhaps be touched -
in hope of finding one crumb
of honesty in one other masturbator,
though the vice of pride held them dumb.

Once more you wake outside,
bitterly alone; confused;
but content, loving only the dawn.