on the table

the years radiating

toward the so-called first days,
toward the so-called last days,

inadequate boundaries

of the heart you hold to.

---Duncan.

~~~

A flower. A hand. The hand you've been dealt. The hand that held a flower to me.

The dealer's hand, as old as time itself. The cards are on the table. The days are lost.

I, mortal, that live by chance
and know not [who] you love.

The precision of your hand's gestures. Ancient offerings. A heartbeat lost in the shadow of another. The red and the black, falling, revealing an infidel's heart.

Your eye, skimming for the word, as it hunts the image. Breeze through it, as if word or image could be solace, the solstice of the heart.

The stars through centuries return
rimes of light to burn in this moment's eyes.

The moment anticipated. Found. Understood, registered, taken note of. And now for tea and a biscuit, which I must give up one day.

Are we thrown into the world? How time falls! Chances are parceled out on the rickety, second-hand table-and you wonder to yourself: when was that, and if there was only ever one game in town. The random acts forming no picture. "Take a chance?", she says. Shuffle. Turn. Do you back down? Raise your game, kid, he says, his hand trembling. I'll see you. Yes, no. What have you got that can trump it all, make amends? Diamond heart, a two-faced queen (eye, stone-cold), a lucky seven, a bemused, luckless king, an ace up your sleeve that will outshine the rest? The ruined pattern made whole, perhaps. A late escape, flowering, a second chance. What's the deal: Dark spade, flint-like, to turn the tables or another joker, spoiling your hand?

~~~

The most ironical photo of the year: