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.
The Fishermen at Guasti Park
In the first days of summer the three elms, those slightly opened fans, unfold their shadows across the river. Two dogs arrive exhausted, tongues dripping, and settle down near the frogbait jars. Aiming their poles toward the center of water, the Sunday fishermen watch the light pirouette off the opposite shore. Their wives peel onions, open wine, do their nails. Most of the men think as little about gravity as they do about war and the weightlessness of time. How could they know that it is only the single, collective thought of their abandoned childhoods that keeps the world afloat?