I knew a man who lived
on the wonder of a lie.
He had a bird in his sleeve
and cards that flew. Dissolving coins
in a closing palm, tearing up notes
that fell like snow. There were tricks
that fooled with a practiced ruse,
the plant in a crowd
or a trapdoor stage. The woman in a box
to be sawn in two. A West End hit
with sold out shows, queuing in the rain
for a fraud
in a suit. I'm an artist, he once told me,
sitting at a mirror
with a frame of bulbs. Hands, magic, illusion,
paused. The bird on a perch
and a cigarette lit. Who wants
truth, he said, blowing out smoke.
Conjurer by Nicholas Hogg | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
