When they asked him why he stole the flute, he said
because it was beautiful,
leaning there against the wall like a spine,
seductive and gleaming
and within easy reach of his single
paid-for seat
where he sat all alone admiring it
while the orchestra warmed up, the scales of the flutes
climbing higher than all the rest of the instruments,
reaching up even to the chandeliers
where they seemed to be warning of some danger, of him perhaps,
for he'd already made up his mind what he would say
when they asked him why he stole the flute.
Then they asked him why he returned the flute and he said
because it hurt, it was that beautiful, that
impossible. It was sharp like a spine,
the keys at first digging into his skin
when he slipped it under his shirt as the lights dimmed,
then ran with it out the door and down the street and through
the night. But also, from the moment he lifted the thing,
he couldn't put it down--wherever he tried
to stash it or ditch it, it suck out painfully
like some herniated part of the body
of beauty, the inner beauty of the world, secret and silver
and singing out from the enclosure
of his desire for it. He couldn't keep it, he couldn't lose it,
he couldn't even play it. So he gave it back and now
he only wants to be believed.
