Hypnagogic (Hands)
They fly like gulls to the rose of your throat
a surface made more tender by the flight
of your fingers in the oh no of gestures
to the valley of come quickly at the notch
where collarbones take turns taking over
taking hold of that musculature below
where you would leave palm prints if your skin’s hills
were wax and your hands became hot Your fingers
say Free us from need Your fingers say Wait
until midnight Your fingers say Come, let us
pray, but wiggle when they whisper to God
