Lovesick

It isn’t love if our embassy isn’t burning,
if the windows haven’t exploded

in a shower of diamonds from the heat,
if the ballerina isn’t staggering around on stage

as from an accidental elbow in the face,
or if the knife-thrower, subject to ironic applause,

doesn’t suddenly doubt the accuracy of his aim;
it isn’t love if the moon isn’t breathing,

if we don’t receive unsought help from machines,
an automated summons to appear in court

and our bewildered joy upon entering the night
a moment after everyone else has left.

Howie Good