Her hands on the table


let me out!!
let me out!!!
cry the fingers.
her hands are like chickens
jostling in their pens.
and a few times over
her hands are dancing
her hands are company,
her hands are embers
her hands are the river to the river to the wave.
how madrid would like
to write essays
on her hands, and
play fiery castanets.

her hands on the lift
make a breath seem like forever.
her hands on the table
make the quiet moments
feel like symbols crashing on dry ears.

bring your hands to me-
all quiet tears:
madrid will write essays on your hands
spain will write novels on your palm
and i will sit on the road
begging for the memory of
something like a kiss
looking for a lost alm.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry



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