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?