Dancing with the Dead

You love to dance with the dead,
tango warm in the dark
and beguiling,
as your slippers
barely skim the night
under the willow spun moon.
You let them lead you
and pull you close
and gently trace
the blues of your face,
where stars hunt and steal
like shadow puppets.
You let them court you
like lovers
and  bed  you,
the intimate twitch
of your silk
parting under fingers
that beg to touch your memories.
You let them explore
and feast on
the mystery of your limbs
as they fall against the sky,
watching you move
like a ghost
out under the slippery elms,
plucking ragged fire
from your youth.