With ink I feathered you, at your fingertips sketched
storm-static and the dust of masks, set crooked all
the haloes of a holy fool to crown you double-tongued
and quicksilver: this hand of faces you dealt yourself
in pasteboard riddles and commedia deadpan, that now
I shuffle like a cadenza to hand back as slant and true
as any con: pick a card, my lovely assistant, any card.
We two only, we know: they are marked all with your name.