I know so little about
this deck of cards, or the
stones that adorn your windowsill.
My palms are turned down in your
presence, in the wind
that never ceases to blow out candles.

You seem so set to follow this laminated
piece of dyed paper,
and you say the same to me. I
am nervous and huddled under
wool blankets.

There are pictures of the several-handed,
kissing your walls. You dance
next to a drum without a name.
You search the skies for bits
of blue and raindrops fall
in circles of gray.

I fade into the viewpoints of
a thousand strangers and weep,
outlining a map with my thumb.
You dance a dance that's meant
for a star and, weary,
cry to sleep every night.

11/09/2002

Author's Note: The reason for the great commission.

Posted on 12/10/2007
Copyright © 2010 Jeremy Magee