Friday, December 12, 2014

Hands



My hands are rough, cut and scratched
Aching from injuries
Hammer pounds and plier pinches, rock scrapes and briar stings
As I grasp this pencil to write these words
My fingers tingle with the crawling sleep of some neuralgia
Crackle as objects pass over their brittle surface 
The finest dirt has settled into the deepening lines
Filling the now visible prints with iron dark dust
Extending through my palms

December 12, 2014

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