Fortunes

Some lines deeply etched
On your palm never rest

As flesh crevices. And cards
That have refused space

In a gambler's hand,
Settled methodical

On a clean cloth spread,
See you 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 be all and end all
Of soothsaying. But really who are we

To know how certain things will fall
In a forecast told by a stranger's voice?