when we live in refrigerators we will dance like magnets

we move.  we move instinctively, like faucets flooding kitchens because it is the right thing to do.  we wear these bodies like houses, we live inside them like masks, and we move.  the turtles are sleeping in the garden, while candles burn on top of their shells and old records play the blues and two people dance as though one of their bodies was the sky and the other the storm sweeping across it.  we are electric.  we always have been.  plug me in, amplify me, broadcast me over your airwaves, turn up the volume.  the sound of my veins is slow harmony bamboo.  my collar bone sounds like the moon whispering.  if you listen too close it sounds like static.  all this excitement has planted a refrigerator in my stomach.  conversation is a ballet.  i am on the edge of my seat.