All her teeth are breaking                                As he pretends to read her palm
the scholars say we can’t trust chance           she hates him
but chance is more than a force                    when the hate reaches the vortex
the neck’s tendons burst                                  he is long gone
the biters get                                                      a red booth and cart
a blood blister                                                    with incense swaying
a spread of smashed berries                            above the lantern’s breath
in that downy light                                           worn tablecloths, the palms
inner inner                                                         and the monastery
like marrow                                                        told her fortune
if the skin                                                            in a language
had marrow                                                       she couldn’t understand.