Last night I met a passive man
With almost no curve to his face,
And skin relentlessly white.
He made me tell his fortune
With a pack of cards.
“Jack of hearts—your love will be
A scullion overturning trays of food
And standing dubiously in their midst.”
“Queen of diamonds—you will have a wife
Like a thistle dipped in frost,
Helpless in your sheathed hands.”
“Deuce of clubs—a downcast jester
Will pester you with slanting malice
When you seek to play the king.”
“Ace of hearts—your life will stand
Straight in a desperate majesty,
Its lurid robes ever slipping
And one wound endlessly dripping.”
The passive man blew out a candle
On the table and bade me leave,
Not desiring me to see his face.