Towers

The sorcerers of Sheboygan
hide their towers in the twists of space and time.

Wherever a sorcerer walks,
a tower waits around the corner;
he carries the entrance with him.

One entrance only,
but a sorcerer worth anything knows
that a tower must have many exits
scattered and hidden well from
the Tiny Frightened People:

a door that opens
to the alley between the detox center
and the cheap-ass chinese restaurant,

a door that emerges
from the mop closet next to the men's room
in the biker bar by the trainyard,

a door that decants
onto the observation deck of a forest ranger's tower
seventy-five feet above the forest floor,

a door that swings
into a church basement,
or a laundry room,
or the stockroom of a corner store.

Faceless and nameless the sorcerers emerge
and vanish into the throng
like water poured into water.