Book and Staff

All my charms are charmless, my tongue
lacks the taste of magic, my spells depleted.
I speak the words, the old formulae,
and I swear I must be lacking conviction,
or else my strength has failed,
for you are going your way and I am going my way.

I laid my finger between your cheek
and nose, and said, “this right here
could inspire a thousand pages.” I
told you that your eyes were static galaxies,
and you blinked as though you had always known.
And for all I know, you have.

I must burn my books, my poems.
Not for piety or holy longing;
they merely proved to be futile
at wooing you, at bringing your lips
to my lips, your skin to my skin.

And for it all, your eyes
are truly frozen nebulae.
I have not lied about that or that
line beside your smile.
How futile to, like Prospero,
have found my book and staff to be
without strength. Beyond the storm,
they cannot charm the heart.