This Scrying

“Thus the conditions under which the scryer can scry are, as yet, unascertained.”

—ANDREW LANG

Pausing by the sink, half stooped,

I study tea leaves emptied in a drain,

the sawdust sweetness of the pulp,

the pattern of my life to come

spread out before me like a map

in darkness I cannot cut through.

I run the tap, seeing how

the conditions will elude me further,

though I stare through centuries,

blinking into spheres, or hold

my palm out, tracing

my affections in a scrawl of lines.

And whether I shall have you here

beside me for another night

I will learn by reading closely

from your lips, but you

say nothing. It would seem,

the conditions against this scrying

are a bold prevention figured in the stars.