Sunlight, stripped silver from
the grey
Clouds, pours through the window to the table.
To your right a nine of swords card of a man pierced
in the
Back gleams as it walls the card of your future
lovers.,
And the redness of Doctrines and Covenants to the far
left of
That table also looks pure in the light.
You do not see me. Your mind is racked in screwing
the pack
For an answer. You turn another Tarot Card
In the order your destiny is to be read.
Your sad eyes look up
And your languid voice says that you are late
For your meeting with the local Bishop...
A meeting to straighten up your fucking life.
I laugh! In bitterness that shakes my intestines, I
laugh!
Another hillbilly man
Has lifted his head above the rest--a foot up from the
jug--
And has blown his breath into the air
Which 'naps another young and fragmented one
To the call of being holy.
But before you arise
You turn the gleaming card of number four--
Your eyes in a more motionless trance than before.
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-
New England Washing
(Mental Account, Some day of Gorbechev, 1987)
Another hour.
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