I could lay you down
and breathe your hands.
I could brush the dust
from your eyes.
And I could hold your moon in my palm;
A junkies palm,
the scarred hand of Judas.

But that would not make you happy.
You wish to hold me
within your glass house gaze
and to touch my soul
where hands have never dared.

The game will not be played
by your rules,
once the pawn is a queen.

In your palm you held the ace of Spades
but it was a losing hand
to your filthy heart.

And the dealer delt away
Whilst the jokers laughed and joked.
And they held their stigmata out
for the babes to see.
But they only saw flesh.

With a needle dipped in ink
she wrote me a stigma in italics.
I can still see it;
In the moving daylight,
In the roving daylight,
In the shadows of light
on a palm.