the collar and tails.
Soft, the dove,
in your hand for all of that.
Rusted, the band,
the wheels in their wells.
Gone, the dove,
and the cocksure sleight of hand.
Empty, the trunk,
the wine glass by the bed.
Dove, a failed trick,
when the blackbird lands instead.
Many, the props,
the act in its details.
Several, the doves,
their eyes, their cooing calls.
Returned, or so it seems,
conjured in my sleep.
Soft, the dove
I capture, then release.
_______
for Magaly's Heart-Bits. Writing IS magic. But, to quote the poem/song, we decide which is right and which is illusion.
The included video unfortunately does not include the poem, but was such a good version otherwise that I have chosen it anyway.