It is the future I claim to decipher
a musky room, smoke and magic
or are they mirrors? The atmosphere
is crystal and you sit shaky, your palm
impenetrable stone, ringed
and telling

The lines crumple and twist in curving
layers, spiralling out of
control over plains and deserts
and curving, like the others,
over hills and streams and folding lines,
an intricate map undiscovered

Exploding colour starts to fade
I guess the weather has a say in the
brilliant red, soft pink, silky beige
but the painted shells are your design.
I gaze, and my voice is the mercury
at your tips

Your eyes are orbs in the gold, shining citrine
despite the rust under the table
it is the future I claim to decipher,
And the stone of your palm is bleeding