Caught in the wonder of it, not wanting
To know how such a thing was possible,
We were willing to suspend the laws
Of physics for the sake of the illusion:
The conjuror made crème de menthe
Tumble from a teapot. Moments earlier
That spout had given bourbon. In a minute
It would bring forth wine then handkerchiefs.
When the magic was over, you killed the evening
By downing Manhattans with your antihistamines
And later still, by falling dead to the night
When I wanted so badly to take you alive.
Come the morning all my young desire
Had turned away. I could not bear the touch
For which I’d only finished yearning. There
Were four more days to go until your flight.