A Voice for Hands
The fine black hairs astonish me—
the clean neat fingernails.
I know I never will, but I want
to slide my finger along your wrist bone
to see if there really is an extra density
of being at the edge of you.
How else to explain why the world
falls in place behind you?
The first time I walked towards you
the footpath collapsed—
you moved towards me and receded
as though time had turned in on itself.
The plate-glass windows fledged
a pale galaxy: your skin, your face,
your eyes, quiet and distilled
as the points of stars.
I wish I could have measured you
with a compass and a star chart.
I have seen your hands since,
moulding the curve of a wine glass—
your fingertips pointed towards me.
I have watched your hands and the ring.
My hands have curled loosely as animals:
white, without hair, grammarless.
Sculpting into Mind
after Elizabeth Presa
I love ephemeral things
lost discarded things
fluff human dust
flotsam the quietest things
can speak somewhere
a fold or ripple
a fault line in gauze
or skin I look for palest
grey in a continuity of white
I look for wrinkles
in half-prints of sand
the quietest things can speak
I am a trail in dust I am
soft edge of my tracing