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| Lovesick By Howie Good |
It isn’t love if our embassy isn’t burning,
if the windows haven’t exploded
in a shower of diamonds from the heat,
if the ballerina isn’t staggering around
on stage
as from an accidental elbow in the face,
or if the knife-thrower, subject to ironic
applause,
doesn’t suddenly doubt the accuracy
of his aim;
it isn’t love if the moon isn’t breathing,
if we don’t receive unsought help from
machines,
an automated summons to appear in
court
and our bewildered joy upon entering
the night
a moment after everyone else has left.
#
if the windows haven’t exploded
in a shower of diamonds from the heat,
if the ballerina isn’t staggering around
on stage
as from an accidental elbow in the face,
or if the knife-thrower, subject to ironic
applause,
doesn’t suddenly doubt the accuracy
of his aim;
it isn’t love if the moon isn’t breathing,
if we don’t receive unsought help from
machines,
an automated summons to appear in
court
and our bewildered joy upon entering
the night
a moment after everyone else has left.
#
