About the tarot
trumps, masters claim, the strongest
is the fool.
This
morning, when a long-eared nut
confabulated out from my fingers into long,
long grass,
away I flew! Oh no – my car – won’t start –
the time! Come on!
Old melancholy whacked me hard inside like
a pillow fight
and pity wrapped me in cloaks – like a sad,
old clown
Andrew would laugh! In front of engineer,
red king or purple pope
he’d use a fool’s strategy;
dance
or smile,
hugging forces – like a yellow rose
exuding the garden for a while,
innocent and knowing – nothing – zero-
footloose,
free and funny, stranger, stronger stuff –
more like – inside,
deeply inside – out.
