William Bibby

         SIMON MAGUS 


Mist filled policies of pine
filter light’s dark grain.

I turn my back to walk along the barrier,
a brevet scribed upon my crowded mind.

In front of me like washed stones on Roman water
families of white geese crouch in vertical rain.

I stand alone on the Janiculum
to see Apostle Peter mend the blind,

But I can fly like a swan, see me beat my wings
perforating the air, circling above the ground.

I saw Peter on Appian Way meet his master 
returning to be sacrificed again; the conjuror

face to face with bliss, turned back to atone
and Nero had him crucified the wrong way round,

yanked into air, latched by nails to a wooden beam
upside down, feet first. All astonishment and yoga.

Dear Peter, such a guilty shadow healing where it fell,
his child’s terror of betrayal hidden in the adult.

I had magic once, now constantly diminishing;
only illusions sustain my weight above the towers.

I have spent my life watching surfaces from underneath,
putting, by chance, my foot into the occult

and drowning in a lie that nature always corrects, 
that we can be sustained forever by our powers.