From A Spell Called Home
Without meaning to we spent the whole day
with a poet I'd heard whispers of last winter,
its mild winds melting quickly into the lakes
and coming back up as light. It was coffee
to see if he wanted to sublet our spare room.
We walked to the apartment—tears at the sight,
quick regret for a quick decision—a beer
to settle the humors, a new book of poems
with a tarot series like the one I am trying to write
but better, as everything is when you find it
in the world having nothing to do with you.
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