May 07, 2016


This fingertip is calloused with age and use
and can no longer call down magic
party tricks on command.

This party knows about disappointment,
a ride with tame horses,
even with the glitter and breakage.

This ride pours out his heart
into hot chocolate mugs,
then lurches and veers,
staining the kitchen.

This heart chokes on chicken bones,
whips off an odd-numbered veil,
as it squats in the muck to seek a lost child.

This child enumerates his ears and toes
while broadcast on a static channel.
A push of a button would reconcile God's armies,
but he won't lift a fingertip.

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