The Magician
Form is finite, an undestroyable hush over all things.
~ Charles Wright, "March Journal"
A thing held too tightly dissolves,
as in a magician's trick,
the one where a crow vanishes
through some slight of hand
and there is only the absence of the crow.
It's like that, only different.
The crow doesn't really vanish, it dies,
its neck snapped by fingers
clenched, struggling against
the ethereal power of wings.
But magicians don't use crows,
so it's not like that at all.
The crow struggles, its wings
attempting the defiance of weight
the earthbound can only envy.
But the fingers hold, and they are my hands
killing the messenger, the bird
I once trusted to reveal my soul.
The snapped neck, a hush over all things,
no awareness, no applause, no magic.
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