Chance: Six More From a Tarot


The sound of eight blades
sharpened on a stone:
metal and ice, a river’s
corrugated sheet.


Bones of a small animal
beneath the rafters—
follow a thread of light
to find the door.


Fine dust sieved
makes another carpet:
months, minutes,
sifted through a grid.


Last night I fixed
a crown of vivid roses
and death’s heads
in my hair.


Pattern of leaves—
on their surface, holes
made by invisible
industry of moths.


Drip of a faucet
on milky porcelain:
bead by bead
by bead.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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