Issue 168, Winter 2003
The grass is full of codes.
The signs are everywhere:
used condom, apple core, a baby’s sock.
You might suppose this is just rubbish
left by lovers, picnickers, and last night’s yobs
but I know better:
Objects in your path are never
without some significance.
A trail of crumbs, a rusty lamp, a shiny bean—
you must be quick to recognize the hand of fate