Questions for the Palmist

 

With each succeeding sculpted line

carved more deeply than the last,

(the palmist says) my creases show

all my lives long past.

 

But the rest I only know

as prints in the gallery store.

Would that I could draw from life

beyond this unseen door.

 

Might I have taken flint in hand

and scraped a petroglyph

in a cave on hardened sand

or overhanging cliff?

 

Am I the canvas, paint, or brush,

the workpiece or the tool,

the living myth, the magus,

or the lady sawn in two?

 

Will I etch away the mask

and come at last to know

what lies beneath the scratch

on the substrate of the soul?