Saturday, November 17, 2007

Twisting

I ate the food they put in front of me,
Expecting little and receiving less,
Accepting everything. What a damn mess:
The dust mites in the oats, the roiling sea,
Our melancholy barber. Stupidly
We mocked King Henry, and jeered Good Queen Bess,
Accusing them of drowning happiness
And sucking blood from a dead maple tree.

There will be magic here. Soon. I insist.
Things vanish, and then other things appear
(I tell you, boys, there will be magic here),
And, in a weird, extraordinary twist,
I, the one man who never had been kissed,
Will find love. Magic, boys – and also fear.

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