Cassie Laying Tarot in Golden Gate Park
In the needling attack
of sunburnt grass,
a glass repose of divination.
In spite of warnings that the seeable
is hardly real or believable,
native desires pour
from outstretched fingertips to cards.
Atmosphere lays a photographic
filter over vision,
sepia colored membrane engraved
onto the eye of recollection.
Soon, it sets and thickens.
Heads recline to watch ghosts,
lilting, curl into themselves,
a spray of Queen Anne’s Lace
above waves cresting in the bay.
Every blink brings brightness blinding
until sight sets unconditional,
the gasping oracle remains fumbling
as water vapor blurs the lenses
of the cameras and eyes.
----
She hears:
the fragmented songs of angels,
falling stars, foreign radio broadcasts;
no matter how hard she tries to catch them
the words remain detuned and distant.
The loveliest love to leave this living
if that is indeed the room,
draped in lace and sun soaked lull
she is to be pulled into.
