Ace of Hearts
The sleight of hand
Shuffling the deck with my fingers cuddling
Each card, and I fold the round.
Transfixing on the motion– mixing and melding
Each card; the resting commotion.
They hyper focus on the dance; my thumb ravelling round
The cards as they rumour, and repent false hands.
A swift sight; a catch.
A stern bottom lip, a frost-bitten glance.
I drown in the notion.
My spine cannot shiver, for it’s stone– Cold
I take a card: The disgrace of hearts...
Caught red-handed twice a year; paper cuts to 'pen’
And marking each card.
Hysteria lines my palm– sweltering heat and swelling.
This job is like a card house.
