Almost a Conjuror
The slight white poet would assume non-human forms, homely
Grampus fish, a wahoo, nuthatch, nit.
He had no romance except
Remorse, which he used like fuzzy algebra. By pouring bluing
On black porous coal, he crystallized, pronounced himself almost
A sorcerer. He had an empty cloakroom
In the chest of him.
All the lost wool scarves
Of all the world collected there & muffled him
With wool.
He imagined he could move a broom if he desired, just by wishing
It. If he spoke of ghosts, he thought he could make of art vast
Tattersall & spreading wings.
When they found him in the nurse’s office,
He was awkward as a charlatan, slightly queasy
In an emperor’s real clothes.
The thermos in his lunchbox was perpetually
Broken and he lied. The small world smelled of oil
Of peppermint, for a broken spell. Everything is plaid
And sour in oblivion, as well.
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