14.
So something has changed—
the wave curled in at Brighton Beach
minutes after Rockaway—
we intercept our fates
traveling perpendicular
between Jupiter —that tyro star—
and where we are.
A line of fate
runs down the palm—
my head anyhow is full of Gypsies,
I am the tower of Babel
I am in heaven
you are angels
staggering around—
or is fate somehow
different from what happens?
A secret elsewhere buried deep in here?
