Nothing more of love
than to watch the bright beings
spurt across the screen
their elastic lives, their un-sad
disasters, their obstinate glee.
To press one’s face close to theirs
until the curse and hurl upstairs
cackle and razzmatazz
and synch with the beak
of a duck. Oh, what luck, these creatures
come of storm, these avatars of form
and color and unconsciousness
dying back to life with a laugh.
Cuckoo wobble, tuba walk,
boing boing and the whistling thribble.
Closer and closer to the screen
until even the credits mean
just this flickering inconsequence,
this everlasting present tense.
Let face with the rake be struck.
Let the schmuck tumble downstairs
with a happy clash of cymbals.
Ring the king’s head in the dented pail.
Let the lost child drop. Let gravity fail.

This is drawn from “The Dance.”