When the magician, whose arms
extend up and down your sleeves,
disappears, your clothes and everything
else around you prop you among
the crowds. The hat you once wore hops
across some open distant field. Scaring
no one and receiving no charity, you
are carried by the wind from nowhere
special to nowhere special, where
every now and then a clothesline grabs
you by the collar until your memory,
senses are too worn for patches.
Your coffin, run through with swords,
cut in half, is lowered with knotted
handkerchiefs, but didn't need burying
since the milk you poured into a newspaper
cone soaked your cuffs. While the wizard
resides in your wardrobe taking your breath
away, the sounds roll in order off the tongue.
The banal city and forest worship the god.