Fading Hands

Meet me at the corner
of Riberia and Saragossa,

orange tree waxy in its wave,
satisfied. Sit back in the moon

light, screened into each other,
no hands belong to ourselves,

and why should they? Don’t
need mine until morning, to pull…

Veins not of blue, meet me
at the inlet clash to wash away

barnacles, make bodies shine
against grain of shells concealed

by veiled eyes, murky flow. Show
me you know what I’m really

thinking by leaving footprints
across my deserted shoreline,

waves not washing away the imprint.
Patterns show us rubies and curls,

wavelengths like lighthouses guide
us to the only one who will fight

fire with a wilder fire, pluming
pall, black eyes blazing.


2 thoughts on “Fading Hands

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