I dream a fakir's dream: pinned
to a magma flow, I move clumsily
towards the shore, my flesh burning
clean from arthritic limbs,
leaving me helpless X-ray hands.
Black sand, finger bones
bleached white, soothed
by a cooling sea
—a million coral knuckles
washed up on the beach.
I sift through glittering
shadows, selecting new facets
to lock into place.
Hands, newly jointed, stretch and flex
—bones, fingers, skin, articulating change.