Private Dancer

My private dancer, painted like a whore,
transforms herself (I think) for my delight;
in shades of red she’s polished, showing more
reflections of a drunken starry night.
She writhes herself into a sudden dream;
her skin is twisted tightly like a wire.
My touch releases laughter and a scream
that rises to a pitch of fevered fire.
She pulls me in so close I smell the paint,
still wet as dew and subtle as a mink.
She wears her rut as proudly as a saint
for my delight, transfigured with a wink.
My mind is dark and she becomes the light
that flickers in my private neon light.

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