Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Don't kill the magic

Three doors down the room I can smell
the salt brewing up into a potion
of tiny feet, strong hands and an arm

to hold off the night at bay
there are other little details I cannot
overlook, the way the stirring
rounds up into a conversation of opposites
like darkening cocoa, like tragedies unfolding

you assure control, once more
of the pigeons appearing in your dreams
begging you a departure, homewards
to a land of seeds and sunshine
here, just hats and rings,
how mundane

then there's the saw,
snarling and rattling,
like a clear incision
of iron staples, you cannot sew back
things you have completely amputated

I tell you against applying too much make up
against using too many props
I have always suspected the magic,
never once the magician.

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