I lose my horoscope.
My horoscope speaks to me.
I, its mother, swim out to sea
and become learning, become decorum.
A flood of monsters
arises at noon and shows us
what it has written.
What it has written
is certainty. Regrets.
A breeze diverged from wisdom.
A book grew into the dark corners
of a dank room. To be continued.
I mumbled to the frost,
I asked for forgiveness.
I wore a label on my left ankle.
The label said: “The air behaves strangely.”
Too late. A voyage of dreams
holds promise. I repeat:
a voyage of dreams holds an air mattress.
I watch the girls’ dresses
of smoke, dresses of oak and ivy.
Another time, our opinions were polluted.
I was so ignorant, I cried. I
wrapped myself in wallpaper
and tried to shine like the brightest star.
In darkness, the secrets grew
like huge red flowers, their fumes
an elixir. Success came later and
urgently. It shifted like the steam
of promise. The crows are my children.
The mudslide is my original idea.
I sleep, I pray,
with no memory and
no itinerary. A decade
nods, renounces that which is near.
I pin soup on my lapel.