My hand is tethered
to vellum and stained
a favored drawing ink: sepia.
New is old and old is renewed.

Scars are imprinted
on so many onion skins —
a bibliography was consulted.
(But the wrong records were retained.)

Fold my fingers
over yours — as dry as bark —
drape an arm. Tonnage of years
moldering in a mist yet to be
devoured in tomorrow’s sun.

* * *
This is based on a can’t-do-it-reaction to Kristen’s prompt at Read Write Poem. Others probably could, and did, so you might check out the results here.

My poem used quite a few of the words from Jessica’s Wordle prompt the week before.  I probably should have found a place for a sapient belly dance, but ran out of bus time.

Related posts:

1. To Focus On What Is Not Is Not Comforting
2. A clothing poem with a few other influences
3. American voyeur*