I suppose it was a nightmare
from which I awoke to reading
Hamlet, or perhaps it was
an omen as the old folk would
say, those who read the future
from coffee grounds and cards.
It told of death or death delayed,
and death except imminent
is delayed and certain always,
and like prophecies built
from omens, black cats crossing
street and crossed twigs, broken
mirrors, everything will come true,
eventually, if not in this branch
of the multiverse, then in some
other one, and I dead after writing
this sentence, or living a hundred
and four like one ancestor dying
in midst of the famine in 1697.
If every omen strikes true,
then every omen also fails.
27.04.2025
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