Free hand

I am running out of ways I can note my hand.

Laying it on a scale is hopeless.

Each assay takes me further away 

from what I am searching for. 

Like a forgetting, the space around it

becomes mapless, without orientation.

I am losing my hand 

or

is my hand lost?

I inquire within over and over.

 I feel like I've just 

entered another room

where I can't recall

why I came into it.

Approaching  Planck

what appears to be form

seems to be dissolving.

Hand appears and disappears,

pouring itself into emptiness.

Repeating...

Until I type this...

Discretion

Where time was on my wrist

I find a small feed.

Less time, more minding.

Wind is blowing through my palm.

I awaken to a wren tapping

on the back of my hand.

All else is so much foam,

its false iridescence sinking

slowly into the warm waters.

I sight down my arm 

feeling the weather 

climb upon my shoulder.

The feed is like a tune that

holds everything growing.

Whether it be dark pressure

or something green unfolding

what is discrete is 

becoming what I know.

Only the faint outline of

a timepiece remains.

Listen.