The pronouncement of an oracle is sought -
and on her terms – perhaps on the
seventh day of every lunar month,
and only by those who have
sacrificed plenty and well.
The ravings of a prophet
are stringently avoided
though revered on arrival –
issuing from the throat
of a roundly disturbed man to
his unsettled audience, cringing
down the funnel of history.
Now a seer is another matter,
with a livelihood to earn and clients
to satisfy, but riding hard
after God’s hound nonetheless.
An omen is tender and close -
arriving in a cloak of silence
near the edge of vision
in one unchosen moment -
the leading edge of
the eclipse of what was
by the white heat
The Muse is closer still
and more dear.
What poet hasn’t felt
the whisper of a poem
arriving, left a list undone,
dishes stacked in a sink while
she leans in hard for an
hour or a week, straining to hear?
The augury of The Dream is famous
in my family, and perhaps in yours,
and also among anxious mothers
everywhere with children abroad.
I once dreamed of an acquaintance
on a bus in Russia, my dreaming self
knew that because we were in Russia
I would later marry him. And I did.
And my waking self still confounds
at the meaning of Russia in the
meaning of Marriage. [...]