The Greater Trumps
Why do they admit pale
rain to spill on pentacles,
to inherit the dominion
of burning as though great
dominoes of dark sputteredand cracked one another
like lightning--bringing the queen
to grief, the knave to his knees
beneath mirrors he didn't know had eyes.Sorted out
on all counts they lie
(hip to thigh)
on a dark table where
the future is below
and after,and what admits the future
is flawed by the past:
a spilled picture--water and brighter water--
a dancing dog reversed
in a green climate by a hill.
Copyright © Ramón E. Martinez, 1999. All Rights Reserved.