Billy had his ears
cored-out and cleared,
repaired,
and the sound of my voice
and the snare drum of
movement
brought tears to his eyes:
The pain, he said,
would pass and would heal,
and he'd numb to the
rumble of everyday
life.
We all seem to believe
in some permanent
notion
of pairings
and bliss
and perpetual lays.
And whatever maintains it
what-
ever
sustains the ungainly
remains
of the cellulite curds
and the celibate flap
sagging over each organ—
Whatever we want to
believe,
it's
routine
and not wonder.
Now all the first kisses,
more holy
than tongues and saliva,
and all the sex is
new-found,
but if water were colored a sunset explosion
with breathtaking hues
in the sky,
on the ground
you'd all of you notice a week,
maybe two,
like the sting
of a lifetime of
silence
now shattered in sound.
The thing about magic is
Billy's recovered,
the thing about magic,
you'll never fall long
into pain
or even the other direction,
the thing about magic,
once you see it
it's gone.
- reading no lines -