The rise and fall of pins and knives,
a blur of flame and delighted gasps.
We sat on edge unable to say
where right left off and left began.
All was one: a movement of
magical mischief. I wished I had
to juggle four things at once, to keep
the plates spinning, the hands working
together. These days it seems
nothing works well anymore.
We play at our games and ignore —
treating the other with contempt:
one hand not knowing the path of its twin.
To support the poet’s benign coffee addiction: Coffee.