What floats over your mind’s cloudless skies
As you build your prized crab-meat pyramid
At the right corner of the plate?
What purple hues levitate your patience
When you had feared steamy dampa oil stains
But instead fell victim to McDonald’s french fry ketchup?
What sort of peace entrances your spirit
As you wipe the stains off your white top
Before tossing it into the dryer?
What do those skyline eyes see
As they look back at these curious tired irises,
Mere objects of that full empty gaze?
Do I want the answers to these questions
Or would I rather the steady rediscovery of magic?