Dream Song 330 [the Fortune-Teller’s daughter]

A Poem by Anon ymous

We hunted for quiet, legs pumping
hard up hills, bike tires worn bald.

She brought tarot cards,
said her mother was a gypsy;

her voice became small, I tried
to steal a kiss in the dark.

It’s been days without rain, the still waters
of Superior drowns the wind.

The air is tight; you always know
what to say;

you have written me a map;
I smell burning wood, the ash.

My future lies bare, I’m at a loss; a fall
leaf blown from sidewalk to street,

the lake hums; you press my name
to the roof of your mouth.

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