Fortunes
Some lines deeply etched
On your palm never rest
As flesh crevices. And cards
That have refused a habitat
In a gambler’s hand,
Settled methodical
On a clean cloth spread,
See you even in the absence of eyes.
Perhaps definition—
A sort of fate’s progression
Or its delay, or the dependability
On what lies beyond mortal time
And space: the everything
Of soothsaying. But really who are we,
Denizens of a compressed mind,
To know how certain things could be
Definite in their unvoiced
Forecast?
