  Last night I met a passive man With almost no curve to his face, And skin relentlessly white. He made me tell his fortune With a pack of cards. “Jack of hearts—your love will be A scullion overturning trays of food And standing dubiously in their midst.” “Queen of diamonds—you will have a wife Like a thistle dipped in frost, Helpless in your sheathed hands.” “Deuce of clubs—a downcast jester Will pester you with slanting malice When you seek to play the king.” “Ace of hearts—your life will stand Straight in a desperate majesty, Its lurid robes ever slipping And one wound endlessly dripping.” The passive man blew out a candle On the table and bade me leave, Not desiring me to see his face. |
|
