Aries: There are miracles under your skin if you could only get them out. Feel them stretch and ripple and pull your limbs into their proper place a marionette dancing in time to an all too familiar beat.
Taurus: Stand over the precipice that holds the deep magic of the world, see the fingernail marks that scar the edges. You are here, you are alive, you are alive.
Gemini: A street heavy with history and a cold winter morning. Sirens in the distance seem to echo from days gone by. This was never what any of you wanted but it is what you have and there is fire in your veins.
Cancer: Pull your heavy face and dry eyes from your bed, and fail. Pry yourself from sleep, and fail. Wear the haze like a veil so that you may see the things you missed. Let the dreams stick around this time.
Leo: A lady in a blue dress weaves through the crowd, something wrapped in brown paper and twin under her arms. She is bleeding. Nobody notices but you. It has only just started to rain. The package never gets wet. She is bleeding. Nobody notices but you.
Virgo: In spills seawater through closed windows. Fryers and register succumbing to the waves. Theseus replaced every part of his ship, nail by nail board by board, but still it was driven by the wind and the strength of men, still the ever-present taste of salt. Dollar coins are useless to shore birds.
Libra: Liege, 1913. You collected enough gold and hair from the men to make two more bullets. The divots in the mud grow closer every night. The radio only plays songs your mother used to sing. There isn’t enough coffee to last until sunrise. Silence from Tommy.
Virgo: The moon had children. They orbit around her like bleary puppies. The tides are different now. The moon was never this close. Night is more common now. She is beautiful up close.
Scorpio: Five in the morning. Your plane leaves in a few hours. The razor glides along your skin with practiced automatic grace. You run your hands over the now-smooth skin and marvel at how quiet the world is, as if time and motion and sound only happen under this soft electric light.
Ophiuchus: Dust and retail shelving. The faded color and strained stitching of the things on them. Brittle plastic. A set of blocks, just like the ones you had when you were little. A familiar warmth as you roll them in your hands. A clerk is watching you.
Sagittarius: Pressed against the membrane. A plastic sheet over the surface of a pool, sinking but never submerging. The world bends to put itself between This and That. Synthesis, Antithesis, Synthesis. A woman named Autumn.
Capricorn: A rolling banner ad that bares a woman with a plastic smile. Garbled words and too-small text that interrupts the world. Shadows of the exhausted author that wrote these unwords. Wings and wires. Wires and wings.
Aquarius: A sidewalk baking in the summer sun. Atlas to the baking world of roller skates and flip-flops. The ant nest beneath it. The beach-grass growing from the cracks in its physique. The earth it shields from the sun, cool as the grave.
Pisces: Grey skies and new stone (old to you, also grey) that clutch this strip of buildings like a child carrying a fresh egg. Inside are secondhand dresses and antique camera parts. The shades of buffalo pass through. The herd makes its way down to the riverbank. It is always cold here, even inside. Don’t you remember?
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