Sometimes I get up and don my robe and go
out onto the porch looking for magic—
a silver thread, a winged horse, a flight
of swans returning in moonlight.
Sometimes i circle the dogwood in daylight,
counterclockwise to strengthen the spell.
Sometimes the field seems empty of facts,
except for the dream that lasts days.
She touched my arm. She spoke my name.
–– with two lines from a short story by Denis Johnson
