My Psychic

　　 by James Kimbrell

　　 has a giant hand diagrammed in front of her place

　　 on West Tennessee.

　　 It towers above a kudzu hill as if

　　 to offer a cosmic How！

　　 as in Hello！ from a long

　　 way off， as in how

　　 she already knows

　　 the sundry screwed up ways a day

　　 can go days before

　　 I park my wreck on the hill again beside

　　 her white Mercedes.

　　 O little slice of Lebanon！

　　 O cedar scented

　　 cards fanned like feathers

　　 of a Byzantine peacock！

　　 Tell me again how I might have been a fine lawyer，

　　 that I'll raise four kids in Tallahassee，

　　 how I married-it's true-on my lunch break-Yez

　　 she took you to lunch okay a zeven year lunch ha ha！

　　 Incense. Mini-shrine.

　　 A wagon train of chihuahuas snoozing by her slippers.

　　 You have anxious about a furniture... I do.

　　 But lately I've grown cold，

　　 unconsoled by her extrasensory view.

　　 I think no need to speak-across

　　 the black tabletop， I don't want to know

　　 if I'll find a bright city，

　　 a room by the river， a love

　　 I will recognize

　　 by her dragonfly

　　 tattoo. O narrative of ether！

　　 O non-refundable

　　 life facts！ say that what happens may not matter，

　　 or that it matters as any

　　 story does when two fresh lovers

　　 embrace the old pact

　　 （her bra on the chair，

　　 his socks in the kitchen） that says

　　 their love is level，

　　 unfabled， new. Level with me，

　　 tell me why the dogs on the floor，

　　 little moon fed hounds of Delphi， seem so over it，

　　 so done with the fleas of destiny.

　　 Maybe that's the right attitude，

　　 no need to ask why I'm here on a perfectly blue Friday，

　　 content with what the thin air，

　　 what the dust motes in the light say near the high window.

　　 I should've learned that music long ago

　　 O soundless number！

　　 O jukebox of being that the dogs dream to！

　　 No faux crystal ball，

　　 no tea leaves or terrace in the nether

　　 reaches of my palm

　　 will make her answers

　　 less like hocus pocus in a purchased dark.

　　 It's time to pay， to drive away

　　 from telepathic altitudes， to say adieu

　　 to why love ends. How

　　 How a heart opens again.

　　 Why anything is true.