Cloth Hands

The idea was to remain
thoughtful. Plentiful light.
Watery blue handmade glass.
The influence of eyes. Fearless.
We completely underestimate
inner space, the sanctum
of a hand on cloth, momentarily

perfect as a child's.

At a time when others
are enclosed, we recover
from the cancer of rooms.
A round pink shell buried
in sand without an occupant.
A wild escape. The energy
of living without the possibility

of parole.

Intimacy, feeling good naked;
naturally ,the average person
says amen. Prayer is often
a sign of trauma. Keeps bruises
moistened while we sleep.
Our hands move over the bedcloth,
bitter and infected- instruments

of repair.

The spectacular design
of wrists, fingers and palms
mindessly drumming on the wood.
Scribble, scribble, scribble. The word
of moving- elegant, bleak, inspired
affords its reader a brief glimpse
of redemption. Passed from hand

to hand- the cloth is torn.

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