If sorrow had no lover, the petals
of roses woud sing, and night would not heal
the wound, and we would not blink our eyes, still,
still, and breathe these ashes, these ashes, through
our teeth. We would not melt the snow with our
dreams, and water would not be wine with no
color and no flavor, and the laughter of children,
the other children, would not pierce the window,
would not draw us so near the horizon.
If sorrow has no lover, who will pour,
and who will light the cigarette? And will
there be no ivory blade to cut the seal?
To read aloud the jinx? "I cast the spell."