Dancing A Letter

The weight in my hand
starts dancing, dear sir,
a missed step to time
and the fine-fingered lancer
high-steps the feint lines.
A two-step begins, dear sir.

But the hand drags
to a spider-trot,
a widow-dance and ghost jerks
by the cross of the tee
and the half-formed apostrophes.

It heats to a tango,
bend down and loss deep
in the depth of the w's,
a plush vee of darkness
stirred deep with slow blood,
small loops and a wet hand.

Now the end.
A waltz drawn with daggers,
hatchmarks for footprints.
It's a bad time to pogo
in the dark red of spilt ink.