Ode to a Contemporary Improv Wearing My Black Dance Pants

Black threads interlaced. 

Buttery seams–

The feel of dreams.

Baggy enough,

enough to be fitted.

Sprawled on the marley floor,

Each pulse of my heart 

tugs a string of my soul,

leading me up above.

As I take in

breath,

I feel.

Mood lighting–

I contract, I jump, extend,

Imprinting the stew of textures into space,

carving the air with grooves.

My socks trail the ground,

dance pants 

caressing the ebb and flow

of each of my movements.

Sharpness and blend,

gooey melts, 

Yearns and reaches, 

Controlled poses, and

The music halts.

I come to a rest.

As the gate to my improv creaks

to its cease,

I straighten my body

hip waist shoulder head.

As to look in that mirror's

reflected image,

is to know my 

dance [pants] 

rode with 

each gesture I commanded.