DAY SIXTY (2015-6-7)
The back of the hand is the unexpected small gift.
Tender navy rivers of movement, the crossings of mountain ridges under flesh.
The ability of the skin to remember wounds.
Punctuations of melanocytes, as the ends of phrases we forgot to say.
The dry earth measures of cracks, of lines.
We have accounting on the ridges of fingers, abacuses of life.
The frayed rug edges of cuticles, the flagstones of thumbs.
Adornment in the neutral spaces.
The tremors of growth.