Scapulamancy

by John Cloutier

The hummingbird who normally operates the gears

inside my ribcage is gone. Shadows turn corners.

The morning bus is peopled with workers.

Heavy and slow becomes quick and strong.

The sun yawns. I see a woman’s collarbone on the bus ride home and think

about the ancient Asian art of shoulder bone divination. I stumble

hardhat in hand remembering two small beauty marks on your collar bone

and wings begin moving the gears. I put the radio on, shower,

write these words

and wonder about the oceans the other passengers have to cross.