The sun pours what is left of itself
Onto the grenadine faces of
Dancers. And there is such a joyful
Flow over the singer's simplest
Words that nothing comes to mind. Not
The forgetting of a season nor
The drink stranding the moon into the sky/
"O filter me!" recite the brothers
Their patches of shade sweeten the dance floor
They dance. They dance the dance
Where girls pick up hula-hoops and twirl
Themselves into a young translucence.
And yellow are their mythic dresses.
Yellow is the light now turning gold.
Onto the grenadine faces of
Dancers. And there is such a joyful
Flow over the singer's simplest
Words that nothing comes to mind. Not
The forgetting of a season nor
The drink stranding the moon into the sky/
"O filter me!" recite the brothers
Their patches of shade sweeten the dance floor
They dance. They dance the dance
Where girls pick up hula-hoops and twirl
Themselves into a young translucence.
And yellow are their mythic dresses.
Yellow is the light now turning gold.
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