Blah.
These are his hands;
of majesty; of grain;
of drying canvas and fading lines;
of history belonging only to
him. And his hands;
of birthing; of dancing; of ashes and smoke;
of melting sand and broken glass.
These are his hands;
of mastery; of wire;
of frailty and age;
of nights in someone else’s skin.
Hands of dirt and soap; of refinement; of age;
of five parts to the half that lift the young.
His hands of lost refinement; of broken and deflowered flesh.
These are his hands;
of rope; of piety and strength.
His hands of her; somewhere to the sixth.
His hands of the ninth; of a ladder;
a burden; the Elizabethan collar; of a chandelier.
His hands of open drapes.
These are his hands;
of safety; of lethargic goodbyes;
of dysfunctional mirrors and forgone design.
These are his hands of air;
of rest; of care;
of flickering bulbs and distasteful light.
These are his hands; of his side; of wonder;
naked;
of one last time.
These are his hands of broken promises;
of swaying in the wind.