he rinsed both
hands in the
sink,
watching the soil spiral down
a drain, corroded
and clogged
he
scrubbed,
marveled that his
nails came
so clean
after living neck
deep.
and inspired were
dream clouds
as we stood
beneath
them
in a pose that had us
believe we could
reach them.
listening in ways
that open
me
to depths i’d long
foreseen,
then when your lips
parted to
share
i felt for
what you dreamed.
like stars
in a blooming cosmos,
those flecks in
your eyes
held me
mesmerized,
as planets swirled
about
us
threatening
collision.
on your humble
hands
i feel years
of toil,
still trembling from
from demands
of men who don’t know
sand from
soil.
this city in a
raindrop
and my eyes crawl
all over the
window
trying to find a
dry spot,
thinking i should
see you
soon.
the warning lurked
hidden and
coiled
beneath a smirk
that peeled
enamel
from the very
teeth
that bit
air.
waxen wings graze
water
as cracks in ice
skitter along
a pond
ripe with
life
yet calm with
cool.
shedding that first
layer
allowed the rest to
crumble
out,
never again to be
sealed
in
where contents could
no longer
breathe.
his mind’s a
coffee
shop
with its
murmurs..
spills..
and lack of quiet
space,
amidst head’s busiest
times of
day.
hands in the garden 
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