the magic realist is on to you
his garden is livid vegetable hell
his bricks have tiny mouths that scream
his drive follows 2 paths
on empty days like this hes listening in
his fabulous tanks of hidden fish
his guestroom with the 3 way mirror
his alley barber trimming the pleasant weeds
his dominion over worms
his magisterial calculations made on the fly
on forgotten afternoons like this hes watching
his eyes seeing seeing seeing
his eyes like old coals
his fingers which transform
his chair at the laid table
his signature tune
and a blown out candle