Letter to a Clairvoyant

It is a gift, say some, but only you
know for sure. At your fingertips, the future;
but even one such as you cannot discern some simple things,
such as the reason why everything you set out to write
ends up a love poem. Strange, how you move
through mirth without recollection, committing yourself
instead to those times when you were scattered
as leaves, denuding trees in autumn.

You've been caught
picking through roses, searching
for aphids, and instead of a gun
you keep a flashlight next to your pillow
to frighten the nightmares lurking undercover.
In the dreams you choose to remember, you are
an emergency room doctor, a mountain climber,
a mermaid, one who numbers each evening
how many scales she's shed. Last night, the count
was over four hundred, and you knew the shape, exact size,
and profound iridescence of each fallen companion.

Your reality is not quite this clear.

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