My muse holds a magician’s top hat in the spotlight,
busks on a street corner playing with fire,
pens sonnets in the corner of the coffeehouse.
He disappears in crowds as I arrive,
and I pursue him to no avail
through the trail of illusion, through lingering tones,
through words scattered in my path,
through his vital force imbued in the air like ozone.
Words Like Me 