“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.