Hand Song


 
We rest, leaf-curled.
We work – flex and hold
             pen
             steering wheel
             fork
In speech we call words from air.
We wrest.
Always we seek you
             we tap bone
             press muscle
             trace skin
             we find
the curve of you
the slick of you
the hard bounded
soft skinned hide of you
we plunge
we slide and sing
we call you forth
until your breath lifts
in rags to the wind
until your own hands
find us out and we twin
fingers we interlace
we forget edges
know pulse
know clasp
we know
not to let go