Ring Dance

It's possible we once danced
by the light of the solstice moon,
runcible drunk, hunched over
streetcar tracks to flatten a penny-
the only coin we had to offer
against a thundering weight.
We don't know whether passion
will be renewed at the same address
where ceiling plaster sprinkled our hair
like crumbly feta, garnish to the salt
stink of pleasure. Can we count on
postal carriers to negotiate a contract
for delivery of nothing but billets doux
and arrangements for assignations at sea?
Will the local library lend us
its volumes on love so thigh to thigh
we can sit down again to read instructions
for how to fill an empty vessel?
Will we flip to the page with the pop-up mast
and lash ourselves to it, each siren to the other?
However demented we become,
will the moon shift its light all night
on the water and twist itself into rings
we bought for one flattened penny?