• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 11
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Horoscope Plus

'By when is it too late
to have done anything in this life?'
is my 2 a.m. question to you. Always practical,
you say, 'Yesterday, because climate change
has us spinning along the dark
razor edge of extinction.'

I must have agreed with you
too emphatically, too quickly
unravelling woollen lines
of alternating knit and pearl stitches,
too vividly haemorrhaging
after a routine surgery.
Knowing I could have been
a doctor, professor, artist,
astronaut, spy, famous,
relevant, or even good if
I'd made the effort.
So far instead I have you,
and I worry that your practical
is like my horoscope
that I daily scour the papers for,
vague but hopeful, entirely relatable,
friendly in the fire of total disaster.


Horoscope Plus

'I know you in a cosmic way,'
you say, 'and you are right now
perched precariously on earth
where you risk the tender juicy flesh
of your dreams withering,
while sometimes there is just the long wait
for the tang to ripen, seed to burst open,
being at the mercy of rain and shine, my sweet.'

Even though you have already
compromised the metaphor (it's late,
I can't blame you) I am reassured
and turn towards sleep,
entirely on the strength
of those last two words.