Predictions

Clocking signs from the exact
3pm of my shoes on the floor,
Through the picked cuticle I-Ching
Of my nails,
To the filters and grips
In hermetic circuits
I can't crack.

When the lacquer shine of the guitar head
Shows the hanged man crafted
From toes and scarf
I begin to over interpret.

My new crystal ball is the
Particular type of smile in a
Bus driver's eyes
When he hands my change.
And the order of pennies.

At night, I don't rest
Until my pillows are trine
My duvet,
My clothes retrograde
My predictions made.