Reading Braille

My dirty hands, small as cogs, in a system

Of flexing, groping and spreading.

Bike chain grease paints dark

Crescent moons under my nails.

 

From the fingertip trenches, flecks of white skin peels

Up like sun-weary house paint curls, hangnails

Snagging fibers of blankets and clothing.

 

My damp palms, quilted flesh. Pipelines of green

veins running raised along the valleys

Of the backs of my hands.

The knolls of my knuckles reach

Parched cracks and slump down rolling hills of fingers.

 

I imagine my reach spans further

Than it really does. Nestled in the webbed nook

Of my thumb is the charcoal chunk or hog-hair brush.

My dirty hands, small as cogs, in a system

Of flexing, groping and spreading.

Bike chain grease paints dark

Crescent moons under my nails.

 

From the fingertip trenches, flecks of white skin peels

Up like sun-weary house paint curls, hangnails

Snagging fibers of blankets and clothing.

 

My damp palms, quilted flesh. Pipelines of green

veins running raised along the valleys

Of the backs of my hands.

The knolls of my knuckles reach

Parched cracks and slump down rolling hills of fingers.

 

I imagine my reach spans further

Than it really does. Nestled in the webbed nook

Of my thumb is the charcoal chunk or hog-hair brush.

 

Dressed in coils and spirals, my fingertips swirl

Over my lover's body finding creases and holds

Like a climber scales rock walls. The smooth open spaces,

As legible as the textured Braille of her body.

 

Between steering wheel taps, I jab at the radio

Buttons, letting my hands trust my fingers

To bring forth the music...

Dressed in coils and spirals, my fingertips swirl

Over my lover's body finding creases and holds

Like a climber scales rock walls. The smooth open spaces,

As legible as the textured Braille of her body.

 

Between steering wheel taps, I jab at the radio

Buttons, letting my hands trust my fingers

To bring forth the music...