LAMIA

Floor-sweepings. Dust and dirt and tips of pipes,
occasional embers on the floor
make magic. Grasses hide a tiger’s stripes,
dog-roses line and countenance their doors
through which we mice can scent, and slip between
the stages half-enacted by great men.
The scullion, housemaid, guard. We haunt the scene
and watch—sharply remember. Wait. And then
some magistrate in pomp and pleading calls
to ask what came to pass, but noble eyes
would never ever know what passed at all.
They say magic’s the purview of the wise—
come with me, humble shoulders, calloused hands,
let’s work a while; and then, you’ll understand.

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