Naked Palms

Last night I dreamed of reading naked palms.


And when I say naked I mean 
without skin.
 
And when I say without skin I mean
 bone 
Is so much more a thing
 than flesh.


All that smooth to cover the rough 
that 
Built itself up to bring you here. 

Offered you sacrifices of blushes and right. 
Much as you did not want this. 

Much as you sought to cover 
the 
Carcasses with ordinary things.

And when I say ordinary things I mean

What’s more ordinary than life.
Or death? 
There is something to be said for divination. 

Yes, even sorcery. 

Poems and everything else
 we stutter and wield. 

So I read the bones from the wrists down.

The way they gather moss
like stones beneath my hands.

The way they are.
 
Bald as an abrupt winter.
 
Speaking of everything 
the skin would promise 
to hide.
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