And this is just a simple little poem that probably is--
no, I don't know.
It's called "The Question."
Am I allowing enough time in between for you all?
"The Question."
"You look past me through the open door
at your hammock hanging by one end from a large nail.
A dervish of dust spins beside it, strokes it.
We stand up, we undress just to see what will happen.
I'm shy.
A fist closed over a secret, but you pry it open.
Inside is another fist, yours.
Later, while you write your father
who is dying 2,000 miles away, I read the tarot.
You stop and watch me.
What do I see?
Nothing.
You ask again?
I lie.
I said I saw nothing in the cards.
Baby, nothing, but a man."