Here in my Hands

All of my love travels through the heel of my hand,
nestles in my soft palm, collects like dust in my
joints and under my fingertips.

I think that’s why my hands never stop moving,
fingers typing, snapping, wringing,
anything to clear them.

Whatever I can get my hands on,
to hold or ponder or respond to,
will share what is too much
for my hands, alone, to hold.