Again the cards fell
across the kitchen table
soft as tired rain
The Hermit returned
with his patient little lamp
I sighed at the sight
I wanted the Sun
some golden catastrophic
yes from the heavens
Instead, the same roads
the same waiting woman crossing
the same moonlit cup
Outside, nothing moved
except one moth tapping slow
against the porch screen
I shuffled once more
half prayer and half superstition
half boredom with time
As though fate might blink
grow embarrassed by my longing
and change its answer