I still have, tonight,
the dishes and poetry.

Filling up the familiar spaces,
feeling the weight of a word like “casserole”,
putting it next to the others,
noticing how the world of forms
gives my hands
and the times in which they live
a pleasure worth holding on to.

It’s not magic,
just the rearranging
of various objects
until they become
almost
something else.

Still, when I load up the machine,
and push the button,
and attend that inevitable
moment of pure serenity,
you
would forgive me,
I trust,
and not think me too naive
for thinking it was all magic
after all