I’ve been staring at my palm:
the little litany of lines that runs
from wrist to thumb, the deep-rutted
roads like poorly-planned highways
across a desert of aging skin—
dry riverbeds: canyons carved by
age and action, crossed and connected
by the lesser lines, faded reminders
of days when dreams roamed
these valleys like dinosaurs.
You’re right: I’ve been staring too long
to do much more than get lost in metaphors.
I don’t have the whole world, but there is
a handful of stories in these lines;
best to keep them open wide.