Magill is

the edge of the page
hiding razor truths
refusing to protect you
from you, as you turn
slicing
your simple fingers, and hold
caustic droplets to your tongue, licking them
tasting the acrid crumbs of life
swept under cherished floors
where sweet mysteries always were
and a child you left in the park
waits to come home

Magill gives

chance a reason
to not hide
the hope we scream of and cry for
to land on willow shaded tarmacs
and rescue the day we stopped
looking around the bushes
for hidden heroes

Magill asks

making you reach
calling you out, from the grinder
offering new flowers on crusty platters
if only you can return
but one favor
he is asking for your blood
and that is all he asks for

Magill wants

your blood
.
.