call it wanting to dance with Neruda,
call it the waltz
in the Cartier-Bresson photograph
all black and white swirl
of silk and perfume.
Call it the foxtrot,
the two step, the cha-cha,
oh, call it the fandango.
Call it unsweetened,
the dark, the white, the bitter.
Call it the majorette's costume
left at the station.
Call it larkspur, roses and hello.
Call it the garden of rust on bridges.
Call it heartbreak, rattlesnake,
Call it hummingbird, heron,
Call it fogline and salt.
Call it love,
call it your own magnolia,
your own sweet tango.