Tango by the Seine

or The Old Man and the Seine

by Andrés Wilson



white fedora tipped to the Seine,

He greases the knees         

of savoir-faire,  

with supernova strut

and outstretched hands.

To saturate this slippery  

rite, he might have summoned  

any number of motions,

aroused with the flick of the wrist,

with the red-linen twist    

and turn  

of a matador.

But his quiver is elegant and oh so slow.

It rises soporific sun,

groggy under skyline,  

scarred, withered,



seen again

in minor swirls  

of pizzicato.

Then, she awakens;

she remembers the wild that waxes

Mother Moon

can glisten in the blackest night.   

and he is erect  

and he is composed

more white than gray

yesterday’s lover—

this ghostly chevalier  

wields a woman   

into cylinders, into pyramids,

jarrets of geometry,   

into butterflying legs

into combustible clutches  

that never