Throwing Dice/Casino Poem 1
All night, good friend,
your black jack hands
have shuffled the cards
your dice have landed
not caring much what numbers mean.
We are your matters-of-fact
swaying through stop and start.
Here you come
holding hands with chance again.
We are gambling on transience
tearing through scars.
Sexually, in anticipation, we
are yours, we are waiting
for your two square bruises
to declare their scatter of stars.
