magic depends upon believing
and in the dingy hotel room
the ***** in a red dress
the poet and the pen
*** without love
manuscripts that no publisher will read
she removes her earrings
puts them on the bible
on the night stand
and he throws her down
on the ink stained mattress like
a bouquet of dead roses
he beats her
tenderness
is the old woman
in the alley
covering herself with garbage
to keep warm
tenderness is the wolf and the lamb
he rips off her red dress
and he climbs up the mountain
through the ice and snow
tenderness is the wolf kissing the lamb
but
if we can find
magic
between warm thighs
that lock us in
tightly
tenderly
like our mother's arms
keeping us from death
if we can laugh
walking along that thin wire
where shadow and life marry
where the lions wait
in the witchwood of our dreams
where angels sing and dogs howl
if we can smile
at children playing
and sometimes cry,
if we feel the warmth
from someone elses hand
then I say.
pump.
deep and fast
between empty eyes
that can hold
no wonder any longer,
climb up through the
ice and snow
and never be found,
and when you get to the top
of that mountain
keep climbing
magic depends upon believing