…you must steal your cards or be cursed
In bookshops, like jewels
in glass cases, they’re locked up,
wrapped in wire,
alarms on their backs—
Moon Deck, Shadow Deck, Deck of the Golden Path.
Only for the foreboding
avatar, the lit archetype,
queens from mythic dreams
will the desperate risk
handcuffs, squad cars, jail time, bail.
And I, too, have given up
on science, the pope,
political parties, the right blend
of stock and bond.
I’d rather shuffle a deck
like a gambler, lay it out like a fan.
Because there’s nothing left
in this holographic world
of sidewalks turned ash,
forests burned like a witch’s hair,
but to pick a card. Any card.
The Sun, The Empress, The Jester, The Fool.
