I like the moment when my hand
opens up a window to the unknown
polar winds, a vintage of lifetimes and stories,
now caressing my combusting hand.
For an instant, we are sand: constrained and
docile to the invisibility of our surroundings.
A neon moon brings me in touch with my
most primitive instincts: claiming ownership of
the next wrong step and a turn that is a season too late.
Cha cha cha… Your hands of oak center me in
a forest of penetrating humidity and darkness where
you are trapped in the comforting walls of a
perennial stalactite – robust and fragile – as I
await to surrender to the next cutting breeze