18 December 2018

Postcard 150

My lover's hands are imminent
They are a net of fine scars
My lover's hands disappear in me
Is it they curl with that morning pain
They are always set there like dusty sacks

My lover's hands are concrete
He spreads them out before me 
on a desk beneath his dusky eyes
The desk creaks, a clear plane 
beneath them do not

The morning sun is dusty
His hands are clean. He 
washed them in the workshop 
sink with rough soap
Everything that set them there
was imminent

His hands, my lover's, are contingent
It was a certain blade that cut
this board intimate
another blade, bitter blood
that snapped

My ring wraps his finger. It is
the only ring, right now
that softly raps

That scar was first sight of blood
the only child behind his gentle eyes
The other knuckle strip a cloud there,
a man's weak moment. 
My lovers' hands are imminent

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