“The Art of Music” by David Shapiro

You were practicing the early art of memory.
You would bestow twenty per cent of your attention on me
Then shut your eyes. From time to time since the invention of print
The phrase “elephant debt” would force itself to your lips.

Only one thing exists:   the universe.
The others by definition cannot; how rigid out theory is.
Without the flavor of paint however force seems useless.
Needless to say the stage was set, but what followed?

Together we will sing in octaves. And the hairy bushes
And bleeding hearts develop like twining vines.
You lie in my hands like an if-clause, saying:
“Now, David, pay attention or you’ll never learn.”

Suddenly like Dr Bougerat, physician and apache,
I remember nothing but your snub-nosed breasts.
And I revert to savagery,
The world’s wishes go wishing with them: unhappy billionaire.

© LIT Magazine Issue #2, 2000