This whirlpool of loneliness
is a spun threat
[as if Orwell
were in my boat] –
it creeps –
a quick turn on a dance floor
of solitary dancers –
erect &
fox-trot slow-stepped –
but I
squeeze no hand or small of
back –
I spin upon a head of
a pin in my dance class –
We
trace regulation foot falls
of judges [expectation met
as scoring panels plot] –
see
it will hold me off from love