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