Alejandro sings in his sleep.
He comes to my browns, my best reds,
my store of refe­rences ;
he loves my young eyes full time he says
and for all his fami­ly.

His daugh­ter, Alejandra, calls out her needs :
my ears at the end of her voice
near­ly fill with wax,
but the words slide beneath the bar­ri­cades,
each one an insi­nua­tion.

Alejandro’s fami­ly is large, wise and wild.
They invite me into their home
where I enter­tain with slight-of-hand,
a conju­ring trick or two,
magic enough to insure my stay.

At  twi­light, eve­ry day,
one from the group vanishes
while none of the remai­ning notice,
but each time their atten­tion on the trick
and the way I move my hands, shar­pens.

After weeks of this – good food on the table
wine and the fami­ly appea­ring and disap­pea­ring
like ghosts on a string, like varie­ga­ted angels –
Alejandra remains mis­sing,
caught beyond my magic in the mists.