Palm Reading

Trev Plate



You believe you've crashed every airplane you've ever ridden on


You waste your life trying to be less obvious than your reflection



Your fingernails dig into your empty back and listen to a soft thunder

                                                 more or less

But you

                           Your tongue keeps sticking to neon signs


                                                                           The red light district of a thousand small towns


                                                                           A greasy thumb traces the bitter shape of your



                                                                           Reasonable faces float apart before your eyes


     You fondle off your clothes, your body resembling an ossified cloud


                           Your hair, thick with unease, drools over

                                                                                                              skin, thin and panting


You keep searching for a sensuality

                                                                                                     in the way you wring your hands

                                                                             until                                            you

You've changed so much

                           your phone doesn't even recognize your thumbprint.





Trev Plate spent his childhood on the island of Guam and graduated from The Evergreen State College in Washington State with a degree in Literature and Computer Science. Trev currently resides in Minneapolis, MN where he works in the nonprofit sector while continuing to pursue writing.

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