There is no geography
like the shape of a palm,
like the particular map of what is a palm,
to convey to the practiced soothsayer
the angle of the thumb's rays
the direction of the prevailing fingers
the lifelines of high tide flush,
each jointed frond opposing,
thirsty for life,
splayed to best caress the light
even as the winds spin their prints and whorls
and something like the bark of a tree
grows rough
and grows
hewn.
There is no cartography
like the shadow of a palm,
when it gestures, when it dances
in the splashed moon,
in the heaving tide sucked and spit,
in the celestial hand
to which it clings, it
cleaves,
for dear
life.
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