012: Schiele's phalanges

Gazing at the back my hand I noticed

callus ergs and martian riverbeds,

a record of elusive fixtures

and driftwood surfing accidents,

from underneath, ink-dipped dendrites report

shards of reversed prescience.

I feel the hiding bones;

tension reflects, tactile errand redirects.

I forget my words yet asterisks still stick,

cenotaph signs pointing to cavern footnotes.

Between resilent brackets,

the surface still cloakes an imperfect geoid,

eggshells still remain statutory husks.

Erase the blackboard with the rusted nails

of your left hand;

rewind the hours, but the pendulum swings ever lower,

under the weight of perched night flyers.

Finger zigzags across the sternum,

scratching pits of battery acid drops,

where anticlimactic trilithons and silent towers

lead the way to the fountain.