Household Spells

The magical solo unhysteria of chemicals
wherewith to remove so effectively the geographical
universes of rust and reorganize the construction
pattern viscosity of the external nature of
an old tin trunk, once brown and now decidedly
brownish.

The spiraling speed circle perfection of the downward-facing drill bit,
effortlessly silken muscle machine concentrating swift
alacrity upon the spinning entry of the screw,
the hole, the screw and the hold and
thereby we assemble with such serendipity
the whole of this or that.

The window, how it opens, that which was already an opening,
and opens again, with the simplest lift
of the simplest latch and the slightly squeaky slide
in its silver trough!

And me, sitting in sunlight and goose calls
and the little wash of distant traveling motors,
denim’d posterior symmetrically stationed
on a thrice-recycled dining chair
I once reupholstered in a scrap of golden floral
and my hands half zombie-like before me, fingers outstretched,
exerting rapid small pressures on black squares of plastic
which reply with such brief moving-away
and then stopping, after which the letters flow
onto the white page simulated into my eye
from a spotty Toshiba screen,
myself nothing more than a hair
in the bristle brush of magic
domestic, commonplace, reticulated
with time and expectancy
and the spending of both in exchange
for being alive.

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