In Praise of Hands
Your hands are not the symphony I fall asleep to in pre-dawn hours. Dawn is not a shiver traveling my spine. Spine is not a ladder on which monkeys climb to heaven. A ladder is no teacup on a winter afternoon. Winter is not the crack through which the world opens. Lines in your palms are not rivers of the Underworld. Door to the Underworld does not open just because I knock there. A symphony is not a dictionary of lost memory. Lost memory of touch does not flower in my garden. Flowers are not the provender of monkeys. Your splayed fingers are not keepers of secrets. Cupped palms not dispensers of favor. Every hour is not divided into blunt heartbeats. Sleep is neither refuge nor root. Heaven is not a shattered teacup in your hands.