The Sleeping Arm
As I hold its numb weight
it grows younger,
more delicately knit
to blue somnolent veins.
I am left high and dry
while nerve endings circle
the dilated roots
of severed memories.
A pinched anesthesia;
while arterial threads track back
to things once sensed
on a map of ghost towns.
A slow thaw, and now a delta
seeks a salt water flow
in shallow cold streams.
Blood washes glacial backwaters,
kindles capillaries that carry
a surfacing alluvia.
The arm tugs at my mind like a child.
I flow downstream on a raft
of fine green bones
toward fingertips dipped
in pink shells of fiery snow.
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