you can make the room spin
slick and wicked as a hurricane
without ever moving a muscle.
you’re a village gypsy making predictions
with one dozen marbles, two locks of hair
and a handful of stardust.
you can build a fire from
the friction in your head;
you have the wicked ability
to paint flowers as death’s invitation.
you can leave a room without ever really leaving it.
if catastrophizing is an art
you wave your hand as curator,
you cover yourself in silks,
walk long hallways that talk back
and marvel at empty canvases.
but mostly you are stationary,
unimportant as a lamp or
an armchair or a piece of fruit.
your broken magic goes unseen,
as stars drowned out by city lights.