Clothed in black (secretly a good-luck charm),
He seems to search the nighttime world,
Perhaps for that portion of his brain that
Never seemed to be inside his velvet head.
When night is deep and the moon intoxicates
His fickle moods, I try for him. He spots me first
And hugs the ground as if I’ll never find him there—
But I see him; I reach for him. He runs.
Off into the black I follow in this dilatory pursuit,
His camouflage too much for my unreflective eyes.
I spot him lying in a milky beam of moonlight.
Two steps forward, reaching, reaching. He runs.
His ballerina tail pirouettes with all grace imaginable,
Then flails through the air as a windsock
In this posterior projection of his contradictory
Persuasion to dance and sprint in the same bound.
And then it has been enough. He rolls onto the ground
And I scoop him up limp in my arms. His form
Melts away. We lie in bed. Now the formalities
Of the evening have been handled, and we can both sleep.