I can’t keep up with myself.
I’ve tried vanes, sun dials, plotting wells.
I put a thousand pebbles, feathers, crystals on the shelf –
no more scrying with poker chips and shells.

The best call at the table is, you lose.
The best prediction in life is, you die.
So? So what if I cruise for a bruise
with this scattering of cards, sigh

of upgathered wings, reshuffling of things?
I’m not trying to throw the game, I just wanted
to build houses instead of peacock tails, haunted
not strutting, filled with wet clay and kick wheels – not Mings.

Data is my middle name, but the final note isn’t the rub.
It’s the interpretation, the in-between, the rhythm and dub.