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,
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Comments about this poem (Fortune I by Morgan Michaels )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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