Soliloquy
       

       Give me the language
       of the mute, of the deaf,
       whose words have no audience,
       whose audience has no words,
       whose hands flutter
       like butterflies
       above disregarded coffee cups,
       who touch so soon upon meeting -
       not to absolve the risk of greeting -
       but to say, 
       here, here, and here,
       these are my gift:
       to work nouns and verbs
       from tiny pieces of the sky,
       shape them to your eyes,
       and watch your hands reply.

       Spare me the noise
       of this misbegotten skull.
       Let me speak 
       to you
       and you to me
       each time 
       our hands
       ascend
       and fall
       on shoulders,
       hips,
       belly,
       and
       thighs.
       
       
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