I’ve become good at predicting the future,
Standing before me with tired eyes
Wiping away ringed tear ducts like raccoons
And blowing at crusty lashes like spider legs.
Outside the morning sun leaks
Desperation like warm gumdrop
Shapes in plain yogurt.
I tell myself about the apocalypses
I’ve been dreaming of,
Nostradamus visions of colliding earths
And knights rattling off chess boards,
Old men’s dentures chattering out of their heads.
The cat’s eye tumbles from its socket
As each arabesque filament of light
From the window flirts with the bath tiles.
I am a mirror prophet, a mere prophet.
My fingers smell of blood.