In stages of a series of moves: to come and to go through grooves, which swallow in brief that flowed dress and sometimes staccato heel, that torment and torture. It is a seduction in measured nuances that are a swirl and a bounce and a stamp! “That is surely mine.” There’s a torque, or a tension - I’ve never known the difference - as a foot spins, the other queerly aloof, before slamming down: a gavel. Order! Though the concept seems moot at this point of toe in my direction. I’ve never known her anger to be so inclusive. He, benign and tariffed to the wall like a long lost relative or a smiling reminder of a forgotten hunt, recoils. “This power! Too great against my lied greatness, unmasks!” The hunter turns his gun on himself lest he tangle with the seismic growler before him. A mild violence ensues and then they are both done. Breathless and browbeaten, they flex as waking kittens. Unspoken - the wind bellows it better than any human might - the truth is a form: apart they are naught. “Let the sky collapse in its shades and swirling stars that become shards to decorate the riven water. Now we are nothing, together.”