tarot cards come and go
like hand puppets on thumbs of wind.
oceans collect them
into their trove of shines;
and gulls keep salting the waves,
those sleepy foams of anecdote
that mumble against long lobes of shore—
a meandering song that trees embrace
with a susurrus.
ouija boards are as close to honest
as fate can go. clouds hamper
like cataracts the fair aims of the sky.
perhaps the sun can see
the tragic results of pain,
and for that reason
prompts hope in blossoms—
but pray, when you must,
to sobbing rains
under anvils with raw throats—
do not look up
at ribcages of lightning,
or down at possessed
nightcrawlers. accost
the droplets themselves,
as if they could scry
with the river of their gaze,
curving beyond mountains,
searching a great blue
sphere.
