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("...plays with a million broken toys" - Charles Simic)

Poetry in magic's mode
mantra, incanto,
implicit passes of the wand
or hand, invocatory gestures,
cryptic ritual - any of that)
is likeliest to leave me uncharmed, flat,
or worse, affronted by display
of merely mystifying process,
bewildered, disgruntled,

duly mysteriously,
the actual magic follows,
the miracle, however little,
catalytically transpires:
my blindfold burns away,
I see.

But that's a rarity.
Nineteen times in twenty
the show to me is: 'Ma, Ma, look't me!
See my amazing hands!'
Irritable auditor, I only shout,
'Get out, you cabaret tricksters!'
I'm the dull, vulgar disbeliever who demands
coherency, connection, consequence.
Meat for my meal is meaning,
substance pressed and dressed
to its attainable best for taste.
Flatfoot with gourmand appetite,
I come a-clamour to be fed -

you serve a liquor that
dissolves my ballasting thought
and ballets me above the table high
to the light.