The Out-Shuffling of Stars and Witches and Angels

My hand splits the deck, divides the weight of galaxies and shadows, halves of fate. At a drive-in, the Cutlass grows hot; glass bursts like safety-grade stars scattered between laps, a witch pulling shards from her hair— blood owed but not her own. Starlings improvise in mirrors of sky and tongues, their wings unfolding like cards. At Ormand Beach, the angel sifts sand, her rusted carabiner a halo fastened to a spike driven into heaven’s pulsing hand. The angel speaks of keys and interpretation, her voice no more than the sloshing loamy waves, as we commit to the bit of unraveling. Each shuffle, a cosmos of meticulous yarn, spun chaos rewound to its place in the deck. The witch remembers glass breaks in every direction; a drive-in date is a ritual, golden nachos bubbling under heat lamps, stop, stop the incantation for shattered things. At the beach, Screaming Jesus in plastic cups warms the bones of trial separations. The angel smiles, her graygolden aura a muted answer for desolate humans: What will you do with what’s left? Your skins, your sands, your shards? Eight shuffles, and the deck re-aligns. The witch laughs, remembering that omens are just glass catching the right light, diamonds glinting in the beams of a flickering drive-in screen. The angel says, You knew it would come to this, her words a spell woven into the tide. The keys to the kingdom shuffle endlessly— meaning manufactured in downtime, layered like skin shed under a Florida sunlight, like blood that refuses to spill on command. So shuffle the stars, the moon, the sun, deal a new hand, bend chaos for fun. And call it fate when the cycle resets, each card in its place, each story a new bet.