The Magician

All of his tools are on the table -
the tricks of his trade:
heady wine,
a rolling pin to flatten out
the bumps in the world, &
the kind of food that powers vital organs.
The magician is here,
the magician is there.
He is now,
he is then.
Now he stands cockily,
clog on chair, strumming his uncanny guitar -
and yet now he sits astride the self-same chair,
four feet to his own left,
pumping a magic accordion.
Now he IS a cockerel.
Then he was a woman.
Then he was a man.
(Then he was a small boy, all but camouflaged against the ground.)
Then he was a steamship
carrying one-thousand-and-one
versions of himself
over the ocean waves.
(Then he was the waves.)
This is a beautiful afternoon:
the magician - a kettle -
whistles a steamy spell,
and for a single moment, twelve hours long,
the sun comes to rest on the horizon.