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We dance like we are on fire Perhaps we are in hell Each one of us circling the belly of a cauldron the tip of our toes scalded from fitful leaps off its floors And incoming north is a woman staggering forward through the burning hem of her dress; back bent over by drumbeats, shoulders embellished with gleaming ruffles; glitching to the sting of bass strings, flaming fingers pointing away and toward her chest, her stomach, her head and into her purse for a bundle of cash that will shortly turn to ash, eyes entranced, lips spellbound in a pout, surrendering to a band of mad men belting her name unsparingly, like an incantation And you ask yourself, even in this place, there is rejoicing?