Magic

Near to Jung’s Big Red Book,

a bunch of roses – multitudinous

splashing – not logical

but simply pressing the effort

of crazy existence with no collateral.

Magic is rare and difficult, colourful,

but impelled by gusto and stupidity;

voracity of jester, drunkard and clown.

We need to make room for fools because,

in the end, there is nothing to understand

as wind rattles a casement,

spilling a scent of arcing flowers

and reasonable and unreasonable stand

shoulder to shoulder, bow in acceptance.