• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 12
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Cups and Pentacles

A sea cloud wisped out of the ripples –
fins of multiple sharks ripped through

their placid countenance; two boats and a water
bike raced for the shores, only one made it.

His heart is enormous like the sky – he spills
from his cups like a knave on the decks,

like wet fields under fresh seeds, and his
shores are rusty sand of savage habituation;

people will use his waters selfishly. In my dream
he lights a fire behind my veil; he rides the sea

crushing against his calves; he walks liquid roads
between crosses amongst a ball of constellations;

his fantasies are the folds of the splits
of rock-skies – and I know that which

is written on his flames, they are indigo-
whispers preying on his flesh; I am the

pentacle brandished on his forehead,
a waterfall of embers, like my hair: black

on a white night. We put cracks in the possible
and shine through dead clouds fallen into

seas, metamorphosing as spirits, the bodies
of these on which he races to safe possessions –


Cups and Pentacles

after all, sky is water in inverse roles:
the character of the universe, the sprite of

the urchins, the electrons of loneliness,
the silver-lit arches of infinity.