Handy

How is it
that my poems today
are about hands?

Perhaps it's the finger
food. Or the handle 
bars. Or the clicking
that stimulates light
language. Or my sense
that the index thumbs 
its pinky at the middle
while the ring rings
to ask about commitment.

Possibilities are not always
opposable. I dwell in 
the sound of my bones
where the knuckle
meets the fragment
meets the eye.