Noon. I can connect nothing with nothing.

    Perhaps even chaos¹ is cause for celebration.

    And perhaps the astrologers are right when they chart

    one disaster， one propitious² night， one happenstance

    of glory to the next so they accrue³ 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