Why do they admit pale
rain to spill on pentacles,
to inherit the dominion
of burning as though great
dominoes of dark sputtered

and cracked one another
like lightning--bringing the queen
to grief, the knave to his knees
beneath mirrors he didn't know had eyes.

Sorted out
on all counts they lie
(hip to thigh)
on a dark table where
the future is below
and after,

and what admits the future
is flawed by the past:
a spilled picture--

water and brighter water--
a dancing dog reversed
in a green climate by a hill.


Copyright © Ramón E. Martinez, 1999, 2009.  All Rights Reserved.