Lovesick


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.

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