After the trick, he packs his suitcase
in the dark.
The audience was fine, more than fine.
The run is well underway now,
the stride found,
the task of the performances ahead less
suppressing nerves than exhaustion.
A good show tonight.
What a font of mountain bluebirds.
What heavy warbling over earth.
Nobody asks,
but the birds never come back.
Around the tent, what a commercial
district they make of the night now theirs,
night that lasts as long as earth
unfracked.
their song cheapens the secrets
he can never profess:
his trade flowers amidst terror,
terror amidst flowers.
and who in the audience (gone, now)
was it for? for a ticket
he can take a person from their trouble
to the room of wingbeats the color of a bruise.
and as those cornflower feathers catch the air —
this is not to make believe.
when that first note shakes the l-beam bleachers,
who even remembers they came to be convinced?