Vanishing Point
       

When he passes his hand over the card deck
and all the hearts turn to clubs, you know
it's an illusion, that things don't change that fast
or vanish into nothing, even a flood

leaves a wasteland of mud and garbage behind
to mark its passing, and the best animal trackers
can find a shadow from the lightest bird
still resting on rocks days after it's flown away.

Driving down a road at night, headlights spreading
the gloom aside like a plow, trees and signs appear
only when they enter the car's bright foreshadow
and vanish behind to a point in the crowding dark.

The magician spreads another deck on the table
and asks you to pick a card. All options open
at this point, like the possible that morning brings
when new light fans out over the yard.

There's nothing fair about nighttime, all
it's options hidden out of sight, like card tricks
of the almighty, the deck loaded against imagination,
until a moment someone steps into the light.

And that's all it takes, behind you a bike wheel
spins in the shrinking arrow of your taillights
and all directions converge into one, the stars,
like diamonds, suddenly turned to spades.

Tweet

Copyright © 2018 Grant Clauser All rights reserved
from The Magician's Handbook
PS Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission