|
I
lived with a ventriloquist last winter.
Voices
spilled over anything.
Before that
I traveled with a hypnotist who converted
skeptics to glazed believers with one swing
of his pocket watch. With
a magician
everything disappears eventually,
then materializes again . . . . Silk scarves float
from the ceiling, a red velvet cape fans itself
in mid-air. I would
have loved Eno
even if he’d been a man watching
from the bleachers. I
walked behind
the train one night, heard someone
sobbing. I crushed out
my cigarette. He
smelled the smoke, pulled a white handkerchief
from the air and dried his face--sharp eyes,
firm lips. I felt sawn
in half, edged with long
knives, or wrapped in chains and thrown under-
water—let loose like a handful of doves. |
