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.