Illusions of madness

The guests are amazed
when you make a parrot
and musical instruments appear
with your paint covered hands
all night, until the fire burned
to nothing. We watch bountiful
strings of grapes and baskets
of fruit ascend from your fingers
as the glasses of wine clink
in celebration. I count the fish,
the smell of the dead animals
twists in my throat, as you transform
moonlight into illusions of madness.
Does God know that you make
the fragile exist forever? I wonder
if the magic of beauty is whatever
survives the distance of time.