show me your fingers:
are they scrubbed freshly
and pared down like
chinese pears?
annointed with fragrances
from persia and arabia?
always,
visibly, and more:
tiny crescents,
rose-white and certain,
framed like quasars
against the morning sky,
against silken caramel
or honey and molasses,
begin and extend
the ridges of your landscape,
the pulsing dents of your
articulate veins.
show me your fingers,
so I can trace idling paths
down the soft underside
of unmarked territories.
show me your fingers
and I will kiss them
one by one.
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Yes, really, I'm a bloddy sap at heart.