She says I have fire hands.
My chained heart
line on the left hand
indicates I will write
another poem soon.

I may be writing
one now.

I will never marry,
but I will marry
disparate objects
together with a few
simple brush strokes.

Without a Girdle of Venus,
I will never manipulate
my way into someone’s hearth,
or heart,
or home page.

She doesn’t comment
on the soul.

I will travel to places
I’ve never seen
and return
to the ones I love
in a neverending loop.

She says I will never be famous
but will meet one more
famous person
who disrupts my life
for a little while.

I will not talk
about the weather
for an entire week
some winter to come—
not this one.

She pats both my hands
and smiles. I leave bitcoins
on the table
and walk a mile
before realizing

she did not tell me
if I would be rich,
or live long,
or invent a new word,
or discover a new route

into the center
of anonymity.

These gloves
will keep them warm
in the meantime.