Twilight Magic

In the dark, what won’t I believe that isn’t true?
That somewhere there’s some mumbling equivocator,
a bawdy bard, keeper of the vulgar gates, and switcher on,
crude twilight gasser of the masses, that darkest sort of humor,
a humorless homebody tending her grass pastures
where no cows roam, to moo away the moneymakers’ hum,
their chase for green that doesn’t grows on trees
for him, in the game of sorting facts and fiction, those imagined
hooves trample on his heels, doom and catastrophe perhaps
waiting for him, worries eternally gaining on him, their hot pursuit,
forever their under-fires licking at his foundation. Now
he juggles around the gold and silver plates, spinning on slender sticks,
too slow his shifting hands no faster than the eye can see:
Tale-telling father under-juggling what is and isn’t true.