It is what the fortune teller, practicing so long
Sees in your palm:
The invisible, made visible
Stretched between pinky and thumb
Along that roseate plain-
Viewless to you, of course.
Canals- a little Venice of them, like them
Seen from the air, hashing a city rising.
Some you quit and some you elect
All for just five bucks.
A scarred pit
A glistening lith
A lifetime's line.
'I see nothing, are you sure? '
'Yes, it's there,
And there, and there
I'm telling you-
Ah, but here is something really rare:
Please pull up a chair
And, pray, improve your attitude.
Can you see it?
A fate, a town of towers, pitched on a palm
Of muscle sweat and grit
Like the city sprawled on the bar
Of beeswax and bottles,
Comments about this poem (Fortune I by Morgan Michaels )
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