Monday, August 12, 2013

My hand is a poem

Sometimes I dream about my hand
the creased of its palm
red and raw.

I dream about my hand:

a scattering of fingers,
warm and capable, red
life streaming through 
its veins, 
aching to be held.

I dream about my hand
holding stars in place,
capturing them at length
holding the whirl of brilliance
that screams through the shadows 
of my fist.

I dream they are 

soft as feathers,
warm to the touch.
I feel its passion.

This hand is a whisper, delicate,

I dream of it often.
This hand, hand.
My hand is a poem.

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