in the magic of whiteness,
that it is the smooth
pebble in your hand,
that it is the godmother’s
best gift,
that it explains,
allows,
assures,
entitles,
that it can sprout singular blossoms
like jack’s bean
and singular verandas from which
to watch them rise,
it is a spell
winding round on itself,
grimms’ awful fable,
and it turns into capetown and johannesburg
as surely as the beanstalk leads
to the giant’s actual country
where jack lies broken at the
meadow’s edge
and the land is in ruins,
no magic, no anything.
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