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 carcases 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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