Once when the wandering fiddler
played his polka dance
at the YMCA party in Hillerslev Village Hall,
I danced with Anne,
until we felt the floor
disappear under our heavy feet,
and we almost flew away in the night.
We danced across the fields
like puffs of winds that caused the grain to crack.
We swirled indistinguishably
as dancers emerging into the dance itself.
We had become transformed
by the vibrant vibrations
of a rarely felt magic
in our stomping clogs.