It started with throwing dirt on the ground,
digging things up, looking at the random
dots and points, discerning patterns in the stars
or the neighing of horses, the slow, swift
chaomancy of clouds, the fluttering
smoke of incense, crystal gazing, how cats
jump or land on the ground, forehead wrinkles,
blowing candles out, the stale necromancy
of talking to the dead, the alluvial drift
of motion and figures in molten metal,
the hieromancy of sharp sacred objects
spurting from the sacrificial offerings
of a soul, or onions, or pedomancy
from the soles of feet or hunches gotten
from the ambulomancy of walking,
counting the knots in umbilical cords,
the throw-about of sticks or rumblings
of stomachs, studying the face and freckles
on the first stranger of a troop that wanders
into the village, the sound, texture and
colors in a long pour of wine, wax
melting or dropped on water, the spasms
of twitching limbs, wet burnt ashes, dreams
hissing from a scramble of eggs, pulling
out entrails, bones as dices, pegomancy
in bubbles rising from a fountain, air
blowing its green motions through the trees,
the crithomancy of cake dough sprinkled
on offered victims, rhythms in the jangling
of keys, how a rooster pecks grains of corn,
fingers following lines in a forehead, salt
spilled on a table, spinning in a circle
until one falls down, the vague outlines
of things seen over one’s shoulder, clocks
ticking apart from each other, the nimble
myomancy in the motions of mice, reading
legacies in lips, palms, pebbles, postures
of the possible, bending down to see
wet sappy trails in the conchomancy
of snails, bitterness in the bite of sage,
lunar phases passing through the pillars
of sleep, ripples blowing on the skin of water.

I too now type ancient bright-lit symbols
in Python, or LISP, or C, assembling
in the quick tick of a machine
numbers tallied like dirt tossed on the ground,
combing long binary for the patterns
and kinks in the strands of our existence,

what of it there will be I cannot say.