Sprintedon Hollow

December 4: Wednesday


Our masters have it,
even when they don't:

the right cards handled breezily
or the wrong cards played exquisitely right.

Their talents do not decay.


In the morning through an August elm
their eyes squint with a joy

as a goldfinch threads the cirrus sky
and their bodies bob.

In whatever they do; whatever they say, a god.


If five powers are given them,
they soon have five more.

A cloud turns as the earth turns.
There is no wind.

They make the cards themselves.





for copyright information see homepage     Brian A. J. Salchert                  

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