MAGIC
The magician drinks quietly alone
at the back of the bar.
He does not hate them all,
but in his bones he is tired of favors,
tired of seeing his hands sleight away their troubles.
There is no magic for arthritic joints,
the doctor says gently;
the pack is winding down,
cards falling like rain from nerveless fingers -
nine of swords, three of swords, the black man, chariot.
The wand-user is nowhere to be seen.
In a starstrewn cloak under cloudy skies,
he learns to be Simon.
On his knees before God
the man says not, "give me this power" but
"pray for me, Lord, let nothing happen to me."
Death is a prophecy we all can read,
true, swift and comforting.
Let this cup pass from me,
into the darkness behind the mirror,
the space behind the spell where all great men can hide.
The trick is complete, Lord: let me rest.
