Almost a Conjuror

The slight white poet would assume non-human forms, homely   
Grampus fish, a wahoo, nuthatch, nit.

                                                      He had no romance except   
Remorse, which he used like fuzzy algebra. By pouring bluing

On black porous coal, he crystallized, pronounced himself almost   
A sorcerer. He had an empty cloakroom

                                                      In the chest of him.
                                                      All the lost wool scarves

Of all the world collected there & muffled him   
                                                      With wool.

He imagined he could move a broom if he desired, just by wishing   
It. If he spoke of ghosts, he thought he could make of art vast

                                                      Tattersall & spreading wings.   
When they found him in the nurse’s office,

He was awkward as a charlatan, slightly queasy
                                                      In an emperor’s real clothes.

The thermos in his lunchbox was perpetually   
Broken and he lied. The small world smelled of oil

Of peppermint, for a broken spell. Everything is plaid
                                                      And sour in oblivion, as well.