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A Sign

My necklace breaks at the clasp.

The day turns to sunset.

He sends an exclamation.  


How silly it is to believe that these are

Signs Sent From The Universe,

sealed with the “kind regards”

of his staccato print,

posted with some sort of all-knowing touch,

half a wink, almost a nod…

What do you think this means?

Silly, silly girl.

The Universe,

this grand expansion of explosions,

doesn’t have the time to be sending out Signs.

It is far too busy determining

how Omega should relate to 1 to be

keeping you up in his dreams.

It is a perpetual Sunday.

It is a traffic jam.

It is actually none of these things,

and it is silly to believe otherwise.

Is it sharpening its pen on the wheel or track or hills of time,

gearing up to align, to orient, to situate, to commandeer…? HALT!

There I go again.

I must remind you that

fate does not fall into acrobatic form from fingers crossed and recrossed on lonely nights.  

No, this is your sign enough to know, to please know, that

we must take matters into our own hands.

Face the very thing which

has lost heartbroken fools billions in petals, and coins, and bones over centuries,

and shriek:


It is meant to be









(And yet,


just for a moment, despite everything,

I cannot help but be silly.)

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