Always in June, I go looking
for a piece to slot in, power the circuit
make something of this endless current
find a way out and a way in
a way closer, a way over
take something, break something
run out screaming.

So this morning, I pour over the cards,
Do what you do.

VI. THE LOVERS.
XIII. DEATH.

So hard to find joy without mess
because there is a hare in me
that wants to wake up in a strange den
knowing nobody but my friends
knowing nothing of the passage of time
but for the sun sweeping across the sky
the cold blue moon, the things we get up to
the harsh neon, the pocket dimension, the emperor’s new clothes
It is like there is never enough information but always too much
Can I draw another?

IV. THE EMPEROR, reversed.

I’ll put on my shoes first
go for a walk, grow giddy
of all the stunts I’ll try
when I get the time.