Boardwalk Fortune Teller
A POEM
Borne up by priestly hands beyond the dark
The clean oblation of the harvest moon
Draws no heart to it. Here the brute is stark,
Full-rationed on the rich, barbaric tune
Of jangling carousels, cheap bawdy shows,
Horrors in waxwork, snuffling furtive lust
Along the darkened sands. Yet still he knows
Enduring hunger, and a stronger thrust:
This child, this frightened huddler by the fire,
This prattler in the sun, this fool who mars
The beauty he may never understand,
Stirred by an old, implacable desire,
Traces a destiny in the lonely stars.
And fortune on the parchment of his hand.
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“Does the darkness cradle thee Than mine arms more tenderly?”
— Willa Cather
Take for instance Mary; she
shocked by some divine insistence.
Yet the experience of God,
…