Concerning Divination (2)

By | 1 February 2020

For most of my life I’ve been right
about omens. Salt, ravens. Red skies at morning.
Rocks thrown against the wind. A six
pack ring found in the vicinity of a sparrow’s nest
suggests three loves before marriage. A robin’s egg: split
ends. Stones skipped over an oil-slicked lake are lucky—luckier
still by an evening bonfire, flame
licking the corner of a clamshell
punnet of strawberries. To be born
on uranium-rich soil is to say something about granite, sunflowers,
polymer. The transfiguration of telluric into human
object. A prophecy is only as good as its seer, and no witness
is ever on time.

Today I was divining the melt point of a bulk bag:
the heat required to spur an entanglement of matter, amalgam
of polypropylene and Fukushima soil. The time it takes to write
radiance into rock. What remains
after passing is plastiglomerate, pressure, and the cascade
that rots caesium to barium. What departs is various.
It was many years ago, now, when a stone was just a stone.

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