Natural History of Hands

We don't play counting games on knuckles and plicae.

We've pulled pale roots and tubers out of the soil 
when there was nothing else to eat.

We are music and feathers and lightning.
Oars across water; islands adrift.

What makes a weapon 
bristle the air.

The heft of a body borne on one's back.

Gunpowder and glass shards,
carved geometries on a mountain's face.

An orchestration of chaff from grain.

the sound of wings the earthbound make.

Bright-armored echo, delivering 
blood to every surface.  
Laid end to end, the totality 
of what we've made could circle the globe.

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