handscape
I’ve been staring at my palms
like they were a writing prompt
or a collection of coded runes
the deep rutted roads that run
like poorly planned highways
across an aging desert of skin
ancient river beds now run dry
from days when dreams roamed
these valleys like dinosaurs
I’ve stared long enough to get
lost in metaphors de manos
and the epidermal esoterica
of a little cellular cosmos
little lines marking mystery
whole worlds in my hands
weathered not wrinkled
fingerprints and fault lines
all they’ve held and let go
I’ve been staring at my palms
and rubbing one on the other
now I will let them rest
Peace,
Milton
