This house of cards. I take one at a time
moments of tenderness and make them lean
against each other. And perhaps they mean
more by accumulation and in rhyme
than is a fact. I place another layer
above. It grows more fragile. Hold my breath.
Breathing might break it. And no little death
will ever come from this. It is not fair
Love is so delicate, will fall quite soon
to ruin. Playing with the cards I’m dealt.
Laying them in a cross. Each reading felt
a dire prediction. Yet one afternoon
we sat whole hours talking. It is hard
to wager so much passion on each card.