May 22, 2011

His Hands

Gentle hurricane

The thought of you
is a gentle hurricane
of sinopia coloured tea
conquering the pure
boiling water of my
your slowly darkening

His Hands

‘I hope you are well’
he wrote blankly.
I pictured his calm hands
on the keyboard.
His hands,
they have a wisdom and a knowing,
the knowing of when and how.


Time, you said I’d never hunger,
you said I’d never age.

Time, you are the ticking sound of taking
the insistent claw always aiming at my plate.

Time, you drowning of rainbows
the contracting of days.