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