I adore your hands.
Hands that pull rabbits from hats
and comfort from empty car parks.
Sometimes I shrink myself into your cigarette
so I'll remember them forever.
They fascinate me, your hands.
Are they blind, that they dance so wild across the lumps of my spine?
They play my ribs like Ludwig,
glide as ghosts along my collapsed corridors,
shiver walls, melt guts, and tighten skin with pride.
They grow wary, your hands, as they dry limp cheeks -
cheeks damp with self-loathing and silly broken ideals
(I can't help but cry at shattered chins,
and purple metaphors, and nothing at all.
It's never you.)
Your hands don't fail to pause,
at least for one invisible moment,
over any tattered texture, over every inch of sorry skin.
They paint me beautiful, your hands.
Needle held high, they sew my smile to the clock;
Tobacco in hand, you turn me to smoke.
Author notes
Sorry, Arthur.
Perhaps it's the poet in me, perhaps the useless lover.
Yours sincerely
Written May 28th, 2006
What did you think
Comments
-
applauds.
-
You make me hum. I noticed that you don't log on much , But I'd like you to know that when I can , I come here. I don't need to explain why. If anyone is reading this: " Scroll above to see what a poem can do in just the right hands. "
Breathless I am. Truly.
Hope we can catch each other arond here soon.
- James
-
Wow, this was an interesting piece to read. It had a nice flow tto it.
-
P - interesting title that made me pick this to read. Beautiful flow this poem owns. And the hands are wonderfully described.. using action and your observations and you love through that is a good connection.. i liked this one... i love the end.. such beautiful words... hand that turn you to smoke and sew smiles... wow... keep writing.. love sam
Adding your comment:
