Wednesday, July 1, 2020


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.