Your hand
near mine
disturbs the silence
more than voices,
yet it’s motionless,
devoid of formulated phrases,
nor has catch-cries.
It resorts
when time betrays
its stillness
to turning gently
like a white bird’s
flight from
empty atmospheres :
flutters, pauses
in an intricate response
to silence, settles
on my own hand
where the dark stain
widens.