Why do we rush to the magic show?
Why do we wish it to be so?
We have forgotten:

It is real!

We miss it,
unnecessarily.
For to miss something is to have
had it once before.

The magic man waves his wand
above his empty black top hat.
Presto!
A raccoon, wearing plastic
rabbit ears
crawls out, ass backwards
grinning.
The crowd goes wild.

For somewhere in a far corner of
their round minds
is an ancient memory,
twisted and twinned
around and around itself
struggling to unwind.
A kinked, snarled-up slinky
seeking only to be able to
plunk
down
flights
of
stairs,

Escher-like,

stars.

the
to
up