Thursday, 26 November 2009


Imagine that your hand is mine,
And mine is yours,
And their voyages
Are already plotted;

That their movements,
Which appeared to be our own,
Are actually each others,
And inclined to refuse us.

Their destinations are obvious,
But the lingered skin
Between is suppler
And takes more of their course,

And as ageless conversation
Passes with the grace of patience,
These hands wander
Onwards towards their ends.

Eventually to reach their mark,
And start to work
As we intended,
Mending any sense of doubt;

They’re in and out; up and down,
They’re making frowns
A long forgotten aspect
Of newly acquired faces,

And upon each other’s bidding
Take us where love’s hidden
Filters collect
Impassioned breath.

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