My hands are leaves that became hands.
I’ve had rain pass through them. Between
my linen sleeves
to dry like roasted stones.
Maybe I remember,
burrowed in the prurience of our dark mountainous flame, She
had thawed the frosted embers of my sleep
and carved my soul to fleshy thumbs.
It was fortune
to have touched those damp
roots (the ephemeral lips, like
sand dunes, swept from becoming)
and to have tasted her smoky hair / her motherly thighs / Her
swelling child in my sharp hand,
tears more lovely in the night
as they burned through the cities and the ancient hills.