Prospero I Know At The End

Until I’m living on a boat
I don’t want to read “The Tempest.”
There are stars here but there’s no rest
under them. The breath in my throat

can exhale in song but each note
is not like birdsong from a nest,
more like a lost gull on a quest
in a poem a lonely man wrote.

Prospero I know at the end
is alone, without Ariel
or his Miranda or magic,

but a magician can pretend
still, without a magical spell
and breathe words, bare thoughts with no trick.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



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