by Maurya Simon
Noon. I can connect nothing with nothing.
Perhaps even chaos is cause for celebration.
And perhaps the astrologers are right when they chart
one disaster， one propitious night， one happenstance
of glory to the next so they accrue like an alphabet
in the primer of each person's life. I read my horoscope
each day， searching for the solitary clue， the sign
signalling my journey's halt， when I might look up
at last into the stars， connect-the-dots——see， at once，
the bright Virgin standing steadfastly like a silver ship
docked among the midnight swarms， her left hand beckoning to me， as if nothing floats between us but the world.
Noon. I can connect nothing with nothing.
Perhaps even chaos is cause for celebration.
And perhaps the astrologers are right when they chart
one disaster， one propitious night， one happenstance
of glory to the next so they accrue like an alphabet
in the primer of each person's life. I read my horoscope
each day， searching for the solitary clue， the sign
signalling my journey's halt， when I might look up
at last into the stars， connect-the-dots——see， at once，
the bright Virgin standing steadfastly like a silver ship
docked among the midnight swarms， her left hand beckoning to me， as if nothing floats between us but the world.