What is sacrificed first, almost with joy,
But not with joy;

Joy, itself

Gibing down the dream corridor
Tantalized by its soul-balm

Reveries pirouetting or tango-doing
Across an incandescent slurry of something

Of mine

Mine of rapture-crusted jewelries
Resplendent with giggling

From a belly
Bursting with feast of the most sumptuous sort

A joy,
The imagining of its return

A joy,
Somewhat, its privation