Upturned Hand
I see my upturned hand in the fog.
Familiar.
Yet distantly.
A hair's-breadth in reach I can almost
sense its tender protest
as the bones unfurl then draw close.
The same winged fingertips,
where the stirred shadows
pulse inside an outstretched palm,
laying peel like artful laceration.
A yellowed leaf falls to the ground,
and how my hand swiftly turns
upside down
in the smoky light,
tracing its gold edge,
leaving a marking of whispered skin.
When it grows dim, I stand still,
watching,
hand to be unfurled,
and pressed flat against my goose-
pimpled leg,
sensing a spilling breath
from within the marbled veins.