The Bones and the Cards




The bones landed on the cards. The Fool.

The Sun.

The Chariot to bring them around

in front of me

so my heartbeat would even out

and my hands would stop rivaling

the dry leaves clinging to the sleepy oaks

at the edge of my yard.

They stand against the November wind

sweeping in to usher out October.


          Here’s the thing about fortunes:

their fraying corners are soft against your fingers.  

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S74rw4rd's picture

Applause.  Admittedly, what I

Applause.  Admittedly, what I know of the Tarot (I assume you are alluding to tarot cards) is restricted to Eliot's use of them in The Waste Land, but I sure to like this poem.

Starward becoming J-Called