traces. (the flight of the bishop.)

walking streets in seattle,


a little boy asks me to

draw a card, any card,

from the deck he offers.



i came here yesterday or

a hundred years ago,

in the middle of the war,

to trace the footfalls

of dead men through

the east.



i grasp a card between my

index and middle fingers,

and turn it up so i can

see.



queen of clubs.

almost like magic.



in an instant, a lifetime

crosses behind my eyes,

the flash of lighting across

the sky, tears ruining the

ink on a page, a teacup

shattering on the kitchen

floor, figures in black and

white spinning across the

ballroom.



queen of clubs.

it's time to run again.