Divination

                              The diviner tripped

                              on his way to the pond,

                              dropped his bucket and

                              broke his two pronged stick.

                              In place of water he found

                              solid ground.

                              This was an awkward moment

                              for the future of wet clay and

                              not what he had in mind.

                              He meant to wave his

                              high crotched stick wide

                              like prison bars spread apart

                              the way mechanics carry

                              jumper cables to start

                              a dead car’s battery.

                              He meant for rain not

                              green moss, not a rivulet,

                              not a dancer’s sweating skin,

                              not warm velvet against the palm,

                              not a dog’s wet tongue,

                              not the feeling you get

                              when you wake from a dream

                              and realize it’s only morning

                              and you still have

                              plenty of time.