Busby Berkeley Was a Legs Man

amethyst is a funny word

and we don’t talk smart about the bible

hereabouts

we don’t ask for deliverance from the clumsiest of sources

still

what the movers don’t shake

is asking’s hunted price

a dollop of sunlight obscures your best take

at the dailies

in an aisle seat

trekking in mud from the flats

as the reels slip and flail

in the projector’s spasm

prizing long images’ lean

and the lift of silk

the play of garter

that curious web stretched on carefully planned lies

you string your life upon

is mapped out before the opening credits

spell your name

the lights dim to a lighter touch

caressed past all knowing

it’s just a slight heft

slender thighs and a dress’s hem

that’s blocking easier sight lines

silhouetted wives are ocean-tossed

for the oomph of time’s hightailing

a punchy twirl on endless stages

all together but never quite at once

a bit tipsy

in the world’s gyroscope

but balanced on the all-the-way-up goings

of all that rights

any hankering would allow on

so

stitch all them spangles from the stars

put bubbles in the tap

and happen upon the dreamiest of ways

to start all this dangerous not-happening

from ever having to ever occur at all

because

sugar

when it comes to these here splits and pirouettes

the music’s procured before it’s tested

out and cartwheeled over and under any in’s bet

and you don’t stand a silent’s chance

because the spot’s out hunting your faceless eyes

in that special sway that shows and misses

all the parts

you’d never get

to tell