I sat with a une sorcière
her cards drawn from dreams
braided in and out of time,
like a girl’s hair,
longues tresses de cheveux,
and one cord is yesterday
and one is tomorrow
and the third, maybe the coquette
who doesn’t know she is beautiful. Maybe the coquette
whose arms and breasts
sag just below where they should,
swinging her hips in half lit bars,
making promises she knows she will never keep.