Steaming evening
of an Iowa July, dancers
fill the stage at North Hall,
legs, arms, and torsos
forming architectural shapes,
space in motion,
a city made of bodies
like glass towers lit by the sun,
buildings jumping to the sky.
 
Brazilian music breathes
through flowing limbs
reaching away to and from
each other making a human
three-dimensional mosaic—suddenly
dissolving the precise harmony
of their pose, disordered now
in the disharmony of arms and legs
and the disharmony of sound.

Steaming evening
of an Iowa July, dancers
fill the stage at North Hall,
legs, arms, and torsos
forming architectural shapes,
space in motion,
a city made of bodies
like glass towers lit by the sun,
buildings jumping to the sky.

Brazilian music breathes
through flowing limbs
reaching away to and from
each other making a human
three-dimensional mosaic—suddenly
dissolving the precise harmony
of their pose, disordered now
in the disharmony of arms and legs
and the disharmony of sound.

Space is defined in front of us
in the hot night, always evolving
like the fields of Iowa
along the Interstate,
unchanging space—and yet
in time dissimilar—
brown fields and stubble,
frozen whiteness unmoving, waiting
for the faintest green blush
of young corn glowing
between fence rows, where
the land rises imperceptibly,
and black calves dot the hillsides
catching light on their backs.

The fields of Iowa
do a slow motion dance.