In those days

Chopin

permeated

the halls

with the turntable

spinning an

echoing waltz.

​

Through louvered doors,

I glimpsed wisps

of the man

and the woman

lithely turning

as one,

fired

by the

setting sun:

her head

bowed low,

his hand cradling

her spine,

as they circled

the room–

detached

from time.

​

Fingers tracing

his skin in

gossamer

arcs,

as if

ignoring

his patchwork

of scars.