MAGIC LOOP

Escher,

your major work’s

a mere magic loop,

a stream running from a tower

back to its source,

silent monks on stairs,

climbing, descending

in prayer to their beginnings.

You braid space

with time’s infinite cycle.

Loop or magic,

it’s so deflating,

all sleight of hand,

like sawing the beauty,

just a contortionist

curled in a corner of a trunk.

A princess sleeps mid-air,

her guileless bed

joined to a lift behind the curtain.

Your magic loop

a paper band

ends glued together,

twisted on itself.

Snipped anywhere,

it breaks.

Your one strength

Escher: gelling space;

the liquid flow of time

no blade can ever part.