Harry Potter

Magic involves caring quickly for one version of meaning

before it becomes another. How fragile your flowers hang

wrapped in white paper when, offered in a loose fistful grip, 

a flash of light, they become a transient bouquet of flames. 

The stage show’s assistant, too, sits in a chair and gestures

long enough to let us know she must expect to disappear. 

And If we don’t care for a dove pulled out of a hat, the next 

act would look like a color we had never seen, something 

too inscrutable. The Harry Potter films simplest illusion is 

a newspaper picture flipping to life suddenly then freezes 

and resumes its place in a vacuum. So, you have sent me 

a picture tonight. My finger lands on your smile a moment 

as it moves: your chest dawns, your complexion breathes.

The air acquires a power and you're here, a bit, then gone.