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 studio pants 

caressing the ebb and flow

of each of my movements.

Sharpness and blend,

Gooey melts.

Yearning reaches, 

Controlled poses, and

The music halts.

I come to a rest.

As the gate to my improv creaks

to its cease,

I stand tall in my dance pants,

glad they rode along with each gesture my 

body speaks.