What is sacrificed first, almost with joy,
But not with joy;
Joy, itself
Gibing down the dream corridor
Tantalized by its soul-balm
Reveries pirouetting or tango-doing
Across an incandescent slurry of something
Of mine
Mine of rapture-crusted jewelries
Resplendent with giggling
From a belly
Bursting with feast of the most sumptuous sort
A joy,
The imagining of its return
A joy,
Somewhat, its privation
Moon Bodies 