A. K. Jackson

A MAGICIAN

My mouth is an open, empty mailbox.

The flag is broken.

A prisoner, with a letter

between his lips.

I am plugged in by the pillow on my neck

and I do my living work. The brain puffs:

the body operates.

My last dream becomes a pear balloon,

overinflated. It pops with a jump of fear.

I wish simply to recover: the dream eats me.

I push memory towards my inward sails.

A brave phantom breathing into the sheet.