The shape of your palm

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.