So something has changed—

the wave curled in at Brighton Beach

minutes after Rockaway—

we intercept our fates

traveling perpendicular

between Jupiter —that tyro star—

and where we are.

A line of fate

runs down the palm—

my head anyhow is full of Gypsies,

I am the tower of Babel

I am in heaven

you are angels

staggering around—

or is fate somehow

different from what happens?

A secret elsewhere buried deep in here?