—a dance from Kalamata, famous for olives, and the
     silk scarves dancers clutch so their hands won’t touch
     and burn with unholy fire

We’re dancing with children from the village,

moving counter-clockwise in a circle
dance, light the sun let go several minutes
ago ending its journey here in the ring
turned by our bodies in the late afternoon
under the olive trees.

                                        The light pretends
to be just stopping by. The light lingers
like a man in the kitchen of a woman
he longs to kiss, saying good-bye so many times
they both begin to blush.

                                        The kiss will hurt—
not the kiss itself, but the way they must
suffer into it, let go of the man
and the woman they imagine they are
and allow themselves to be danced.

                                        The ring
carries us dancing round with the children
down here in the last light touching each leaf
as though there were all the time in the world
before sunset.

                              Down here in the green fire
where we let go of our shadows and turn.
by Joe Smith