By now, the magician’s a memory.
You move over me with the smoothness
of the shadows of clouds over land
or sea, I am not a sea… You move…

I try to catch at clouds.
You’re thoughtless you say, as tears slip calmly down,
and you tap my forehead so gently
with the tip of your finger.

Somewhere, it’s raining over an unsettled bay.
I kiss you, it’s a kind of search:
we’re looking for something, but I’m not sure
what it is I only want to go on searching
your beautiful mouth, and my God is a wish
now, to kiss you forever.

I think of you. I’m kissing someone else,
it’s you, I’m kissing…
Where are you? How in this tiny, stupid world
could I lose you, when you were the rain
which caught me, whispered in the open,
drenching me in seconds, making me happy?

It has gone. My fingers caress
a different stranger. She sighs, she turns,
she’s beautiful and kind, she says just inane things,
and I’m bored. Outside,
a sky of ancient, quotidian blue is cloudless,
without a single tendril or crevice
of cirrus, and nothing, it seems, can move in it.
So how does the magic go on?

I reach over to kiss you,
looking for the heart of vanishing.

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