You pull on the end of a shoe
lace--the aglet--like one of those endless chains of magic
handkerchiefs

and find it�s tied
to a dead cow or to a shell
cordovan, split-toe, balmoral

wiggling like a worm on a hook,
and you keep pulling on it
because that�s all you can do

and the next thing that comes
is the grass photo-
synthesizing your own yellow sol

into chlorophyll and by now you�re wondering
where it all comes from
but you can�t stop�everyone else is watching too

and like a stew it�s all pouring out�
the planets and the moons and the dust clouds
over Kansas with tornadoes and witches and brooms

and all the childhood things from your room
come spilling out�your chemistry set
that blew up your desk and your model rockets

that never got off the ground, your angel
fish named Mary
and Joseph

are flopping on the floor
and you think, �Oh God, no more�
where is that white dove

that ends the show?�



� 2004 by Terry Lucas

Previously published in Solo