She concentrated on the finger of plastic
with the catastrophic intensity
of the brilliant, or insane,
as it traced its rhythm over each hip,
below her navel, just below her buttocks
and back at each gyration;
one finger wrapped in black hair,
or peering at the graceful racing arc
of the hoop as it swung out, and in,
to encircle her again.
She seemed totally unaware
of spectators, of myself,
as if all that mattered was within
the orbit of the hoop, the epicycles of her hips.