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.