Magic

Laying my head above
the down of your embrace,
contentment slips in
on interior intervals,
dark and light, beaconlike,
both elements swirling
to distill love. 

As twilight becomes gullery,
while the sky sobs,
making it hard to fly—
until I choose feathers—
dreams try to explain
the remains of the day
rather than mechanical foolery.

I confess to seeking illusion,
forms of enchantment
that express elegant agency.
Lest I obscure obsession
with reality,
I make conquest of drama,
fantastic pleasure by delusion.