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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