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All this havoc
just means I’m a poor wizard.
Once, I lit three twigs and fanned the smoke,
from miles away,
into the girl who jumbled scales through my spine.
As she vanished I clapped a delighted tune.
But not without aches of my own.
Did the sack of no echoes fail me?
Now, on such a mild curse—
boils, sewn eyes, a shrew
in the loin my ankle reddens up and eyes me
with disdain. Toenails fall off.
How far will this go?
Poor wizard. Poorly done in.
These pangs are power are power as both
knees lock up
ashamed to move under me.
Source: Poetry (November 2011)