There is a certain gravity to burnt hands
a weight in motionless skin literature
grooves leading to sky
some to sea
some to stay puddled
in frozen epithelial sleep
destined side by side
with amalgamated fleshy web
When the soot is gone
and the debris bury themselves in linings
blackened fingertips
can once again trace palms in braille
can cup faces
in a smoothness of stretched silk
without leaving traces of anything
but a lingering feeling of weight
of something fashioned by force
that can only come alone from fire
10.25 PM
01.29.15
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