The Trick

A minor miracle, you rise
from nothingness, the ghostly gray
palm on stage, like Venus did,
stepping into flesh from foam.

We do not perceive the sleeve,

the preparations, the pair of pearl
buttons fastening the glove,
the tall black hat of magic. Our

eyes are fixed on what’s beyond

already, following a flash
and flutter high above: a dove,
like love, or life, gone up in smoke.

Magic

Searching in my pockets, I produce:
A single linty stick of cinnamon
Dentine, some change, a cell phone number—whose—
Who knows? It’s yours. I have lost a button.

My fingers smell like cinnamon, the change
Amounts to eighty-seven cents—thirteen
Cents shy of one whole dollar. What a strange
Taste those missing pennies give Dentine.

I take my pants off, turn the pockets out,
I shake them by the legs, up and down:
Nothing else drops out. I want to shout:
Where is that button! Then I turn around

To find you naked, groaning, close to tears—
Because I hold my pants like rabbit ears.