Palmistry

8 AM: Insects whistle like wind in
the mountains, like the ocean’s air at night.
I walk the pebble path. God chars leaves till
they’re coarser than rust, and God needs no fire. 
Each cherry on the tree is the eye of some bug,
and each eye is a window, including 
mine. I can’t take off my screen. Why? 
I must be a violet: a flower that’s 
named for a color it isn't. What else?
What else can’t be read like tea leaves, coffee 
grounds or tarot? You? What can I learn from 
the lines on your hands that your face locks its
lips against, and hasn't already said?