the smoke he makes is obvious/ the mirrors in his pocket are less than obvious/ there are people who think he’s a magician/ he does have his tricks, but they’re play for pay, and they usually fall for his i am so into you game of reflective, thin ceramic masks/ a slight mist of supper, and frost-far resonance of impending-autumn skateboards/ in the valley below us, there would be the sounds of summer voices, half with joy, half with fear, half with exultancy, half with sadness, and half to all his second selves moving as if a distant throb of music at a dance/