This is the time when I think of your hands.
The scissored path of a swallow, skimming over a field of summer grasses.
Bette Davis, raspy and elegant, aching to light up one final cigarette.
Your fingers skittish as an only child, your fingers as wise as turtles on a log.
The threatened rain falls, violent, bountiful, not at all like the touch of your hands.
I am in love with the grandmothers who are ghosts in your hands.
A gypsy palm reader’s erotic novel, written in the lines of your hands.
A grandmother drowsy, dozing on the sofa with the television on.
The cook’s sweet cream sauce a ghost on your fingers.
Like crows flapping in a thunderstorm sky, like crones, like typists, like leaves caught on fences.
Remember a night they were twined in yours: my fingers little monks cloistered in your hands.
Come forth like Lazarus, move like swans.
Valentino manifesting with a turn of the wrist.
Think of a ship filled with all the heroes.
“Night” is a hauntingly beautiful installation.
Tell me anything: tap it in code on the kitchen table.