Kalamatianos      —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