A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Ode
What is it about hands?
(that I love so?)
It's the fingertips,
the memories in
the fingerprints.
It's the remarkable brushes of skin,
the mental marks
of gentle sin.
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