Back in the last degrees of Libra walked the white sandals
on a pathless route towards where the woods met the clouds
and frosted glass covered the anvils where words are made.
I fade into my darkness, mumbling forgotten songs.
But when the fire of Mars is dowsed in the waters
of the fishes that sing lullabies to bodies that do not float,
I wake. Cold as a scorpion that stings itself on its head
if only to reassure itself that it is not dead but half alive—
like a vampire at four in the morning, an immortal with no life,
a distuned guitar that accompanies an inaudible lyric
about witches in disguise.
Soon, the Sun will rise in Capricorn and the Moon comes home
to lay on a bed in a house that I will never see. No vacancies.
But not before dreams are illuminated from that place in the sky
where everyone is a child no matter how old they appear to be.
We all have to come from somewhen.
And we converge.