HOCUS-POCUS

      The dawn is growing lighter as I sit      
      Waiting for the Spirit to enthuse       
      My torpid mind with something meet and fit      
      For verse—my invocation to the Muse. 
      Soon syllables and sounds begin to flow,     
      A line of thought takes shape across the page,       
      Then ending with a resonance I know       
      Must echo down below at the next stage. 
      Sometimes, as now, I simply marvel at       
      The mystery of this process I invoke       
      That turns my mind into an acrobat       
      Or a magician pulling from his cloak
          Exactly the right word to end a line 
          That makes you think I followed a design.

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