Have you heard about your hands,
how they’re the devil’s play things?
When entwined with my fingers
we cradle til numb, fine friction from
a twiddling thumb; graceful extremities
fondling every surface covering,
generating and extracting energies

With a hover they raise the dead
cells on my flesh and walk the sacred
space of nerve-endings with a trace
and trails of my racing heart
They’re smooth and soothe wounds
that can’t be spoke, knocking at
my teeth to wrestle my tongue
seducing me from the inside

Your hands are the tools
of your trade, skilled to persuade
and bade time--for it doesn’t exist
Unable to resist your palms upon me,
pockets of warmth radiating heat,
I relish in the sin of wanton skin
waiting to play with fire again