the corner of the cotton cloth
threadbare but starched stiff-clean
caught between your thumb, forefinger
suspended in the dream
upon the table, piled high
the objects of consumption
china, porcelain, chipped but proud
glass half-empty, cracking
you have the choice
that’s all you have
but no skill, no experience
pull, and hope the magician’s trick
comes naturally to beginners

Publicités