Falling for Eno

I lived with a ventriloquist last winter.

Voices spilled over anything.  Before that

I traveled with a hypnotist who converted

skeptics to glazed believers with one swing

of his pocket watch.  With a magician

everything disappears eventually,

then materializes again . . . . Silk scarves float

from the ceiling, a red velvet fans itself

in mid-air.  I would have loved Eno

even if hed been a man watching

from the bleachers.  I walked behind

the train one night, heard someone

sobbing.  I crushed out my cigarette.  He

smelled the smoke, pulled a white handkerchief

from the air and dried his face--sharp eyes,

firm lips.  I felt sawn in half, edged with long

knives, or wrapped in chains and thrown under-

water--let loose like a handful of doves