Two-Step

This is another step, not astray
but syncopated, please—it never lands
in old time. Write that down: The way
I play forever, improvise off-hand
the eternal pattern—step, and stop, and stand.
The incremental, everlasting race
that glorifies the simple stride, garlands
with stunned hope my failing pace,
and leaves no time to stop, untethers grace.
Help me. Now. I cannot win.
I maybe, only barely, recall your face,
and this I think is what they mean by “sin.”
To love and to be loved is all my care.
I make another step. Please meet me there.