Jack of Diamonds
After ten, faces. Try
thinking of one.
A thought boy, drawn,
but not like breath
or time or anything
you can put a hand on.
Then one morning the air
tastes safe, like nothing, like
something already yours,
and counting breaths just means
breathing, not counting,
or not counting up. The basic
requirements of a face too young
for its moustache, propped up
by collar, ribbon, chest.
All of it nested, and even
the thought sword, because a fist
grips the blade and the face stays
blank, must be covered, or too dull
for anything but show.
Three of Spades
Three is for you and me. For the face
of this cat that wants my cold air.
Your boots from above. What had been
oats, clouding, letting half the body
be alone with being alone. Anything
can be unlucky. A heart on a stick
is for the fourth brigade. A heart
that points up. A heart that could
turn dirt. Not a heart at all. Three
for the rules of this game. Live
a week. Pick a card. Tell me.
Eight of Clubs
Weeds like
weeds
would never grow,
alone,
safely placed to
prevent
touching or any
hope
of finding a fourth
leaf.
This should be
abundance,
leaves multiplying well
beyond
their number, keeping
us
counting. This should
be
nourishment, and for the
grazers
would be. Not force
tripled
and gripped. Not
rooms
shrinking in.
Not
this impossible garden
we
can neither tend nor
let
go.
