Hands

I need sleight of hand for my story --

a flourish, a flash of the wrist --

a place in the palm, for the glory;

the end of it told with a fist.

The path "Enter here" of my finger,

the direction I point with the word,

the gesture that asks you to linger,

the touches to ask if you heard.

The digital branch when I seek you --

the nerves, like a web, brush your face --

the weight of tales lighter, I reckon,

than tendrils to wrap you in place.

                        12/19/95