in memory of Michael Potemra

His magic in the end meant only this That he could wake up without bitterness

And walk beside the ever-phrasing sea No longer sunken in his wizardry

No longer dwelling at his soul’s expense The pauper of his mind’s magnificence

Nor hating with his energy for good The Caliban imprisoned in his blood

By finding life was always suffering And always would be despite anything

By finding that he had first to forgive The past to find the mastery to live

And take the world not for a better place But for a mirror for Miranda’s face

And no one there could ever know or tell How much he had been slave to Ariel