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A poem by Nicholas Laughlin

Published in The Strange Years of My Life
and previously in Poetry Wales, April 2006


The Mysteries

Never call it magic.
                                    From a hat,
a wren, another wren.
(Scarves. Eggs. Balls of glass.)
This is my perfect trick.

A bird in the hand is a scar in the hand.

A hare is another trick, a worry that runs.
This makes sense but for the German tongue.



A fur purse for blood, a trick spun out of nerves.
A creature of steel and insomnia, little coils,
hot, hot little eyes.

A hare has won the race to martyrdom.

My wrenship, my badge, my spurs,
my ambush and wake.

Birds do not yet have names.

 


 
Read more poems by Nicholas Laughlin