The primal sensual lingers
close to the softened hand.
It cannot be holding
anything.
Screens,
don't let in enough
light. Barely any
protection.
Sometimes
we touch,
with fingers
that have no contact
with skin.
We type,
with words
that have no adherence
to the heart.
We must
discard them,
wear down
cruel stones
and fantasy,
or rage
like roses
that go unnoticed
while we fight
the invisible
casual pain.
This is more than
adolescent sense—
More petals,
fewer thorns,
please.
Those that know
the rising sun's
caress
pray beside the moss.
They share
more than
they hide.
So feel your warmth
with another.
Learn to read
palms.
