heroinfaster than the eye perceives, the glass falls apart.the uncounted pieces remain. before the shattering is heard.so there it lies. not the window. not the shards.but there, in material silence, lies the spent event.the concrete remnant of a fall. of a sound that was briefly distinct.but remains indescribable.there, from the still of the glass,a mockery was born.(and the way she might imagine how a window freezes.pulls itself into a crack–this is how his body stiffens)
magicHe places the hat on the stair for her, behind the hardwood door,hoping she likes bunnies with queens of hearts tied on their backs,because he sends one through the catdoor–not noticing the razorbacked Siamese–before he scatters butterflywinged petalsthat reach her window with misconstrued innuendoes,when all she wants is her zucchinis to grow overnight,her hairknots untangled, the pigeons out of New York,and the creep with the bowtie below her window to disappear,together with the doves he keeps pulling from his pockets,just to show her some magic.
the magicianYou continue to watch the disappearing act,Determined to catch this moment between visible and gone.The rabbit is gone. Soon another.A pigeon dipped-blue nosedives into a scarfAnd it is gone. The silk square with it.The woman is gone, of course; she was a pretty brunette,You already know this, just as you remind yourself how you’ll remember herWhen you see a face with a similar complexion.Over and over it will come,The magician as awestruck as you,He can’t believe it either,As pettingzoo goats, potbellied pigs,Carousel herds vanish from his stage.Finally three grown elephants.Perhaps you’ve heardthat he does not sleep anymore, the magician,because one night he woke up to his answering machineflashing, and a voice that saidI no longer love you. And please return my things to their original state.Return the swallows to their canvas and silence my violin.I long to play it myself again.Please return my pillows to their normal size and take the b