First, the record. Not the one you think.
The one with the scratch in the second song,
because a scratch is a promise
that someone played it too many times.
Second, the shoes. Take them off.
The floor of this apartment is cold
and honest; it will tell us
where the old boards complain.
Third, my hand on your shoulder,
your hand where the small of my back
begins to be a question.
Leave it there. Don't hurry the answer.
Fourth, don't count.
I know you learned to count, one-two, one-two,
in some school gym with the lights too bright.
Here the lamp has a red scarf over it
and nobody is grading us.
Fifth, breathe when I breathe.
You'll feel it — the ribs, the small lift —
and then you'll feel yourself following
before you've decided to.
That is the dance. That is all of it.
Sixth, if you step on my foot, say nothing.
I'll forgive you the way the sea forgives the port,
which is to say every night,
which is to say not quite.
Seventh, when the song ends, don't let go.
The needle will hiss in the last groove
like rain on the roof of the funicular.
Stay in it. Stay in the hiss.
We can turn the record over
later.
