The aging magician retired to his island.
It was not so green as he remembered,
Nor did the sea caress its headlands

But there were trees with human faces.
Afraid, I ran a little way
But must have wandered in a circle.

I don’t see my mother dancing—
in my thoughts she still trims vines
sprayed blue with copper sulfate

Are you looking for me? I am in the next seat!
My shoulder is against yours.

The great doors remain closed, but the spring fragrance
is inside anyway

Each forward movement of the clouds leadens
The cupola covering the great men
A bit more. Then it explodes again

We are going to dip English backward
by its Shakespearean tresses
arcing its spine like a crescent

What remains of you beloved

                                        to haunt Self
like the tangled script of an ancient king
                speaking
across time