The Palm Reader Covers Her Face With Her Hands

See these palms, see them
knowing, knowing the whole life first,
before me.  See what's in them, all of us
or only me, what was and is and what will
wither.  The hands that move faster than
the mind put worlds in place without
sowing.  If we are grasping, what are we
even holding?  Fingers reaching out from
hot center that we may feel each other really,
maybe offer.

All of you are books, deeply written,
and I will memorize each line and
read you long into the night
instead of sleeping.
I am not

a psychic, just a reader.  Not a mystic,

but a feeler, I see like Aristotle

that lines are not written

into the human without 

reason like thoughts

in the eye like light 

in the mind.

He had fire hands, square palms, flushed skin,

short fingers, kept comfortably close
to his midline, either curled in
at the stomach
or holding
one another safely
at the small of his back. 
He wouldn't show me.  So I wrote
his story for him.  Watched
him keep going.
And never told him.