Wednesday’s horoscope warns about playing the game I’m in.
A psychic stops me in the shelves to say the writing knows what it wants.
By this line of thinking, I am to the air I breathe
what a pig is to water. What’s important is the difference itself,
the cold hard mouth of the world according to Bishop
to whom I’d surrender my lungs if this topography bore
any resemblance to the one in which sentences are cylindrical,
horizontally elongated as hammerhead snouts. I have fallen
out of grace with the internet. I told a man today about the dangers
of swimming in the Gulf at night, the shark breeding grounds,
shark run, a name the old salts kick around. What I felt in my chest
was this bouncing, like one of those balls with the lights inside,
which I interpreted as an earburst, i.e. nova,
that sometimes two people smashed together by coincidence
feel & feel until light consumes them, or they consume each other.
Sometimes I get tragic. You act like our love is so dire, my lover tells me.
I tell him it is just that. But he’s right—there’s nothing so dire
except the split second before death’s pin-prick, the emancipation
of ethos from which all consciousness springs.
I’ve fallen out of grace with every tingling moment, every body
I’d like to touch, every seminary of largess. I am not
what I thought I was—all that safety…poof.