Our Lady Moon is consummate tonight. No virgin crescent
of coy light, nor half-shown face part veiled in shade,
she is full herself this eve: a gravid priestess throned in sky.

The sea has risen from its bed, awakened by her shining frown.
A lobster, dredged up by the stir, clicks reddened claws
to trap her glow but cannot touch her lowest rays.
He'd crack her shell and nip into her opal flesh,
sort her bits in tidy piles, each with a name that seemed to fit,
but she reigns beyond his reach. He tires and sinks back
to the depths, wrapped in dreams of shrimp that swim
in purple robes and toast themselves for being kings.

Coyotes howl at her approach, from avid worship,
fear, or both. The dog-kin prefer daylit bones,
the tasty marrow always sure, but she serves forth
a different meal, where ribs forget their proper form
and change to blades of jade and steel, then fluff to doves
in barleycorn, then curve to roads thick-paved with pearls.
Thin hounds have hopes there must be meat
within the ever-shifting shapes. They mouth the gems,
flush empty nests, and cut their tongues by gnawing knives.

Two towers border her domain. Grey and slender,
with no doors, each has a window near its peak. To walk
their secret, tricksy halls, the foolish must ignore the earth
and find a way to scale the air. Few enter what reflection builds
and those who have are often mad: poets bent
on serpent staves or prophets who would chat with god.
Their stay is brief, for dawn dissolves translucent floors
to drop them sunstruck back to ground, and though they gather
all their words, they cannot speak of what they found,
except in silvered metaphor.
 

The Hanged Man
Death
Temperance

The Devil
The Tower
The Star

The Moon
The Sun
Judgement

The World