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.
From Speaking in Tongues, published by Gibbs Smith, 1990. Copyright © 1990 by Maurya Simon. Reprinted with permission.