Fabulous

Before the storms arrived last night, constellations danced

over the Brindabellas. Certainty’s remnants,

a scattered glitter of broken glass in dark passages,

contour maps of time’s fathoms and shoals.

But since the little brown moth fled from the fires

these celestial translations in large fonts make no sense.

If you dream you’re dying it means you will soon see an eagle.

The end of the rainbow is always found under your ladder.

(That’s what it means to be chosen.)

Keep an umbrella open inside your house in case someone throws salt.

An itchy palm means you forgot to put shoes on the table.

(That’s what years of wandering teach you.)

If you’ve had some bad luck, you should go smash a mirror.

Knock on wood at midnight if a black cat hands you a knife.

(Better safe than sorry.)

Then storms brought thunder like the tread of witches and wolves.

Lightning grimaced with a demon’s mask. I got the kids up to watch,

taught them to count the beats from flash to thunder,

to know how far the wolf was from their door, to wait until

they saw a flock of cockatoos that rose

and turned together like a key

unlocking the newly polished sky.

A Jokoban