Your voice does not know
your hand: how it touches your lap
with two fingers stretched out
and smooths over
trouser creases, seams,
a raise of your palm
grazing the table with the back
of your wrist, then rotating
over a crisp white shirt.
Cuffs starched into white bowls
filled with porcelain cream
allowing smells of fragrant soaps
to brew in the air, beneath
my face; it draws me in
to trace its source.
I guess, such an unusual enamor,
it suggests that I pay more attention
to the fire, than to the fireworks.
But then the hand leaves my stare
then reappears like an open leaf
palm lines subtly drawn, drifting,
I want to touch the hand
but it goes away once again
with no ambition.
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