When a magician dies
they break his wand.
Many guitar-songs close
with a strum.
While you wait for an old chord or seal
you attend the gospel of sitcoms,
unscramble the wallpaper’s
green curling leaves.
Light torn from a glass
waltzes and strays from the room.
Thank you, you say alone,
so many signals to choose from.
Things do come back: dry-cleaning,
arthritis in your great-aunt’s joints,
a borrowed book, your darker roots,
the half-moon, your calm way
of looking out a bus window
for six hours straight,
hands pressed in your lap
like collapsed white stars.
Your reflection cast on the flat-burlap land
as certain faces loom in the minds and moors
of Victorian heroines, and the faces
that once figured large
in your own,
where are they?