Palm Reading

the hour held in a colorless spectacle of undeniable
plenty
rings through a forest of bones which are used when
perceiving
these twinkling percentages dazzle upon cloisters of unforgotten
sound

each dimension-triangulate and simultaneously reverberate river-bed without
clouds
blocking dormant silence hidden beneath tone-rock-grow and unfold moss
made mold bolted
lightning breaks free from its hardened task and sets forth

smashing statues in the will of its palm-scripture, which
never-read until utility finds placement-exact,
vibrations held in chemistry of perfect line, a geographical-reach, a topography
of many a mountain sleep
or not

the bells of an ungloved hand trumpets dawn as rumored from times when
whispers once carried more weight, yet
still, who can hear the lines of trees, their ages of rings wrapped, of bark, these beings
who

can hear them breathe, and how they breathe, and what they stand-by, who
but what sits in their branches and reads sky’s lies, the one’s made of unnatural line
distancing themselves from the thick which covers all—inhale a whiff

it’s what continues to burn without home—echoes across mountains

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