Let this poem stand
in relation
to the truth
the way a mirror
in a magic act
can apprehend
reality: as a fiction,
as a fantasy
which distorts me
and conceals you
while it gleams
in the quiet wings,
slanted off at
forty-five degrees
to validity.
No stanza is there
to explain
how the things work—
each was manufactured
to bring you
where you would not go
ordinarily. The words
are quartz and silica;
the sentences pass
and dissipate
like smoke.
And the premise
isn't even happening—
now you see it,
now you don't.
