The Crone

in this broadsheet
your destiny go search
she told me
every word

I examined       pieced
together clues       puzzle codes
headline riddles       anagrams
palindromes

laid on skin       slipped under
pillow       finger-traced the white
between its columns       sought
rhythm

in the syllables       drowned in
smudgy ink till word
blind & head fuzzed I
fashioned

a battered paper
pipe that slipped over my eyes
& there I left the suspect
places

the smooth fools’ faces for
the peace of constellations
accepted       the wax & wane
of dreams