Nine of Pentacles & Four of Wands
desire is dangerous
desperate
dreams die when you wake up
a daunting diaspora diminishes
you stalk
you slither
in diabolical dexterity—
the world clicks its anguish on the roof of its mouth
it is dormant
it grazes
while our riches reverberate,
they are radiant,
rabid—
fruit falls on its knees when it is ripe, and so do I
we forget to celebrate the small things
like the return home to your noise
