House of Cards

I remember when I used to shuffle Tarot cards,
they made a sound like silk – or dove wings
fluttering so rapidly and softly that they might
have echoed how, in dreams, love sings.
I’m shuffling a house of cards today, as I survey

a move: plan the funneling of everything
into another groove: I draw equivalents
of swords and cups and sticks and pentacles
and stars and suns – and reeling magic men
who seem dimensionally and intrinsically to live

to roam – inhabiting no empty or inactive
space – temporally temporary – cosmic foam.
Cards, like wings and other silken things,
are made to rustle and to veil and render
a reminding grace. It could be I’m already home.


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