In a daydream I attended
an exponential function
hosted by his eminence,
the summit of his self creation;
close acquaintances only, commonality
reassured in glyphic communication.
His hacienda was mostly atria,
potted green, and rain washed
marble chessboards where gardeners
wearing chefs’ hats offered fertilizer
Memories if compressed by force
achieve solidity, quite attractive
he told me, and took me on a tour.
Beneath a shade cloth willow,
a selected group debated lies and fantasy,
with whiskey, ice and me,
wound in a Roman bedsheet,
a little nervous in such brightly illustrated company.
At a certain unremarkable moment,
his eminence leant towards me sotto voce:
The magic of my youth has left me,
its cicadas and ephemeral smoke.
Once I fell in love with a vagrant light,
a luminous firefly, and now
I seek a book she wrote
about verity, magic and myrrh—
The Egg in White.
Might you help me in my quest?
I feigned a degree of contemplation,
looked up into the windy sky
where a storm of truth was brewing,
and dissembled with a flourish of my glass.
An Isley single malt if I’m not mistaken.
Do you mean magic magic or just plain magic?
Might this egg have been instead a pale
amber shade, and within, the ashes of a phoenix?
And which came first, the book or the egg?
After sunset I observed the other guests—
they didn’t leave, they found their places
in the corridors
or on the plinths in alcoves.
Each returned to a static life,
each no more than
a cobwebbed recollection
of his eminence.
incêndio, flammable memories