The map in your palm

Signs no one else can read


distinct and arbitrary

as snowflakes.

Each crystal melts

in the cup of your hand,

the future a sphere

that breaks upon contact.

It stings your skin

like salt in old wounds,

a tear slipping

from your eye.


The map in your palm

is off the grid.

Don’t trust strangers

to tell you the way. Trace

your life line

to the end and plunge

over the edge,

let yourself be borne

by wind, wings

you didn’t know you had

                                               or fall

                                               to the ground

and find your feet

(unless you break your legs).


You know

this has been your story

all along, although

you could have taken

a different turn,

got lost

in another familiar wilderness.

Rhyme and reason

now ring in your ears:

revelation delayed

echo unfurled

the design intrinsic

as a fingerprint.


Slowly you decipher

the life you write.


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