Here's a poetry draft. Have at it.
Looking into the Reversed Mirror
The fortuneteller for the Navy predicts
a dark transition, a coup of spearheads,
a floor moldy with black fletchings,
a lieutenant colonel in a fig leaf
who can’t even piss rubber bullets.
This fortuneteller can tell
when tea sets are reversed, knows
when to abandon the melting hot cities
and flee to the beaches, the beaches
he knows where the elements meet.
As a boy, his mother had taken him
to lakes and farms where boundaries
kept things that belonged from things
that did not belong. In the fenced field,
there was no revolt.
The beach, for all its shifting in wind,
for all its shifting under water,
for all that it gets kicked in the face
of younger siblings and weaklings,
the beach refuses you passage. A boat is a lie.
The fortuneteller knows lines,
understands that signs cannot be crossed,
can feel attractors and singularities,
cannot feel the desires of goats and eels,
knows that every coup is the same river.
Comments