A poem by Nicholas Laughlin
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.