N

　　by Maurya Simon

　　 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