“After the first few games
of Patience, the new deck
understood that its life in
your hands would be one
of dire omens & cheating.”
—James Merrill, “The Poet’s
Notebook,” Collected Prose
Here they all come to die—
Fluent with their forked tongues,
But for a young poet not of
Their race, it was sheer madness
For you to lie about love.
Now you’re blind in one eye—
And you’ve got a gimpy leg,
All because you abused the
Teacup of destiny, saw the
Board as your own toy city.
Now the glittering occult—
Dark as dark chocolate and
Deep as the deep sea, every
Morning for you is misery,
Each dawn you can’t endure.
What makes you cry out—
The old masters could’ve told
You why, the burning sword
Above you, never falling,
Always dangling overhead.
Nobody can coax you back—
From the Land of the Dead,
Under the teacup everyone
Sees death without dying,
Spilling it with one’s hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment