Tarot

 

 

A humming beneath my fingers.

The air swarms with forms,

A silhouette, a glance, no more--

Single candle hoards the light.

The table responds by creaking.

--Oh yes, my fingers. Shuffling,

they dance in sign language,

tumbling the cards like rocks,

So heavily, so heavily:

Each one pregnant, caught in stasis.

This room attenuates to an axis.

The air outside is full of gods,

but here all is solid and weighted.

The candle flame nods Stop. I listen.

I'm an ear, an eye, and two thin hands,

escorting, chaperoning. Here,

Hanged Man; here, The Star.

Bleaching color from the room,

the cards glint and whisper,

What shall we tell him today?

Little windows, I draw back their curtains.

 

©1985 Gregor Everitt