Water
ripples into wine, the mountain levitates
before hiding
in the sea like a disobedient stone
reprimanded by a harsh plow.
Loaves of
bread sprout from branches
and fall
to the ground like so many crumbs
intended
for pilgrim pigeons.
Fish jackknife
from water, flopping on the ground
in consternation,
coming to a quiet, heaving rest,
their eyes
looking blankly at the sky
for an
answer that will never come.
The paralyzed,
now restored,
look like
whirligigs from a carnival,
dance
moves bursting from marrow
of
newly-straightened bones.
The fig
tree crumbles into dust,
an old
woman dying because she was told she must.
What are
we to make of such odd goings-on,
as if
reality were nothing but a spoon-bending trick
performed
by the maker of movement,
the architect
of eyes?
We gaze
and slap our thighs, marvel at the energy
that was
coiled in everything
from the
moment suns began to shine.
We return
to cooking meals, building rickety barns,
and driving
nails into something
we cannot
possibly explain.
The
lunatic in the asylum, his voice quiet now,
begins a recitation
of Shakespeare.
He alone knows
the meaning of magic.
He alone is
wise.
~William Hammett
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