The first word uttered by the psychic
was my father’s name    then:
The man you’re here to ask about

will never choose you

He says I am the King of Cups    cosplaying
as King of Swords    on the path of transformation 
into King of Pentacles

Kings are encouraging    & violent
The summering Empress lasts 
only as long as wildflowers

& boredom’s affections    A compulsion 
to create is not so different from an instinct 
for belief—    faith in the survival

of minutes surrendered to a current
unsurvivable    This bowl: 
begat by an impulse of fingers

This hand-less mug

I love the mud of it    the shaving away    sneaking
a piece of myself into strangers’ periphery
solid as the weary siren of memory

I am supposed infinity    the number eight    in wait 
for a Knight to love me    I should 
take the pottery class

I should cradle my pentacles    lay my swords in the sea

Wherever you are Knight of Wands    spare the horse 
& bridle    skim the coastline for a yellow cardigan 
harboring the barefoot urge to dance

The birds in the window are waiting
to uncage their song in our astonished hands
.