Ouranomancy
        divination by means of the heavens

Stasis equals your belief in a window. From it you see
a black maple sparkle
a hospital's brick into aubergine. The glass carries a yellow
glaze of traffic, the whorl
of crimson wing tips, the slop
of salt-water. Up high in the elms, light
disappears into the bark of a bird that dips among the red
thrash of leaves. The voice of three

ships circle the harbor: where a small house
on the shore's made real by the sun. You would bury
your song, and walk backward keyless
into the sound of locks. That you were not
human. That there would be no one
to ask. But that you needed to
ask in order to live. Trucks

excite grasses under rain    bear scat    egg peel
of nut hatch      bird skulls
scattered through mulberry. There's
a ticking in the mind that thorns
and unfurls into thistle. You struggle still but can't
see what's missing. While

once you ask yourself why stumble.    Ask yourself gentle
why laugh. You're not
special.    You're not
not special. No comfort in language, real words
are soundless, but you gather no words, believing you still

hear him, but when you speak of his
voice you close the window to the ocean.

Tweet

Copyright © 2013 Maureen Alsop All rights reserved
from Mantic
Augury Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission