on hands

hands are miraculous things that convey the most mermorable messages. hands are at once melancholic meaty, mitts and sensitive surveyors of somatic sensuality, as well as long loving lyrical lines enlaced with liminous lust or long-lost love, or longing for love, or, simply, lovely lost. lonely lost. hands are winding and wrapping and waiting and wanting and willful and woeful and wretched and wrinkled. they are instruments of sound moving across the ribs sure as notes fastened to a bridge and motion strummed on strings. they lift up and let down slowly, they throw and drop roughly. there is so much drawn on a hand, so much drawn in a touch...

to be continued...