I had this picture of two palms
astrology book,
big blue
from the queen bee’s desk
I told him – “cancers, they’re maternal”
that cringe, no shock
some sour country-boy ideas
about girl power and horse power
But I’m not into it, astrology
except the fresh star nights -
your brain, like glass
gem cuts dashed across your baby hands
The things I love are obvious,
the meanings all made up
dead people on the internet,
and xeroxed paper palms
But it's all real, hearts break across the ether
each and every day
and I've still got those pending palms
in my forever files.
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