Zero: The Fool

by Ron Loewinsohn

His sky is the same yellow as his boots,
which appear to be thin and ill – suited for
the craggy heights where he dances
without care.
His sun is only a quarter sun, its rays
cartoon-like. The jagged Alps in the distance
behind him look like fangs, but the mountains
below those fangs are blue, and might be
little more than dream – Alps. His little
dog must think it queer to dance like this
on a cliff so sheer.

I’ve always thought of this card as
my card, but the youth only blesses,
his arms outstretched: his world, his orchestra,
and he, exhorting it to the inevitable
cadenza that awaits him just beyond
this moment on the card.

His number is zero:
the 1 that counts for nothing.