Take away as much mystery as possible. What is left?

Draw five cards.

In dim-lit psychic parlor
In back corner
Of old Boston building.
Between cobblestones and church bells.
The receptionist said,
It’s very rare to see a woman request a male psychic.
Well, if women can’t be honest with themselves
How can we expect it from others?

I sat across from Keith
Perfume of incense,
Con artistry and divination
Conversation and prestidigitation.
I asked him to tell me of love
And all the other usual nonsense.
Then I drew 6 cards by mistake.

Keith broke character
Holy shit, there’s a lot going on here.

I don’t know if I agree
With what he told me.
His warnings of the second week of January.
When evidently,
Some lover with whom I have unfinished business
Would wander back in.

That must mean this is finished, then.
But go ahead, call me lover again.

This is coming at you one way or another,
You can’t stop it.
You just have to let it
Run its course

I’m not sure if this counts,
If I have paid my dues.
I’m not sure if I believe in Tarot cards.
I’m not sure if I believe you.

This is like something else, some other moment.
The strangely familiar landscape
Of his apartment
Prisms hung in negative space
Everything is white,
Except the wine.
(I am trying not to spill)
There are mirrors everywhere.
There is limited candlelight.

I know this book.
This photograph.
I saw it during that museum visit.
With Johnny,
Right before I broke his heart.
I know this shirt.
I bought it for someone once.
This word.
This room.
This overwhelming sense of déjà vu
Seems in itself familiar.
How did I get here?

I asked him to tell stories
Of best and worst and histories
I asked him of his fixation
On his own mortality.
He kept saying
If I make it that long.
I asked him
Do you make a habit of bringing home
A lot of women?
Less of a question
More an observation.
Choreographed foreplay of glass of wine,
Can I kiss you now?
Can you,
Promise me something?
Promise me that no matter what
Happens with us

That you will still give me
Your smile,
And sometimes a cookie.

Last time I was here I left with
Another woman’s hair on my sweater.
Last time I was here I assumed would be the one time.
I assumed he wouldn’t explore my writing.
I have compiled a lot of assumptions
About this one.
Go ahead, kid
Prove me wrong.

I have grown accustomed
To New Yorkers
To their wandering attentions.
I have become more like them
Though less jaded, more fascinated
Thing is.
I thought there would be more poetry in this.
Instead,
I just heard the same story twice
We were friends, we became lovers.
      She is like a sister to me.
   I still talk to her at least once a week.

The bookshelf was rearranged.
Last time
I spent the morning dissecting it.
Plotting my escape.
Humming along to Nick Drake.
I never admitted,
I have always loved this song.

This time, he
Pulled out a black box to show me.
Have you ever seen these?
 They are designed to break creative blocks.
Then he said,
Draw a card.

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