Here, in the cards, is the flow of
Our conversation, and the ebb of promise,
Shuffled like badly practised footwork. We pick
From the turmoil, and begin.
In my tarot deck, the Fool’s gold falls
Into the maw of a waiting shark. Why is it hungry?
All of God’s creatures are
Starving, and we are no exception.
We are all shrieks and nothing more.
We are the sound of an airplane door sealing shut
Against the world and thinking itself
Invincible in flight. Think again.
The door opens and we tumble
Into a sky that will not catch us.
Our burdens are too heavy. Our hearts are too light.
In the days of sun gods, we
Weighed our hearts against a feather but
Now we weigh our hearts in each other’s hands
(In-between and up against our
Guilt). We have not learned
How not to squeeze. We are still falling.
All of God’s creatures strike the ground, and we are
No exception. The earth has a patient,
Open mouth. Hungry creature.
The Sun watches our Swallowing, and there’s no pity,
Except from the watchful stars,
Still worshipped and still Hidden by the flimsy folds
Of an indelicately arranged dawn.