Horoscope (Libra: January 8, 2000)
I recognize your imprint on the sheets.
Somehow it almost captures eyes as though
the weight of your stare could bring form
to color— the green of peace; numbed,
ambivalent gray. You’ve cut your hair again,
lines trailing off to left & right. Sleep sings
your praises, damns & comforts you
where this day’s hours grew too heavy,
were misspent. So, unsure of yourself,
you move from one state to the next:
Chuang Tzu & butterfly, affective robin &
mime detached from a world that shuns
silence. Your outline in the darkness
holds impermanence like whispers after
a loving kiss. If you could accept such
promises, make brandy from moonbeams,
form a dream more real than your life
before sleep. . . Instead, you struggle,
stir, breathe deeply past your trembling lips,
find no peace in even a moment’s rest.
Change will be more than a passing—
awaken into loving hope, as if your heart
has filled itself with orchids. Without,
see: you are a window at first light.
