I look at my aging skin
and see how bone begins to speak—
like I’m palming black aces.

What have you grasped, hands?
What riches have you wagered
that didn’t sift like sand or water?

You have but one argument for salvation:
you were present; you endured.
Even scattered across space,
the bones of the hand
hold the dust of a star.

For thoughts like these, I live with praise—
for the hands I have held,
for the winds that have sung my face
back into my hands.