the hand that rubs my body down is soft: softly veined & of a powder-white translucence; transcribed from dover chalks to run down my chest, backs of my thighs.
the hand that rubs my body down curves in sweet musics 'round my soul; the shrill but beaut'ous rasp of skin on skin -- of fingertips tracing strange poetry along my spine.
the hand that rubs my body down holds in its palm a sacred oil; anointing me at midnight hour. muted bewitchments; burns the candle down to a nub.
the hand that rubs my body down calls for christ in attics of sunday afternoon ... crosses its fingers in spiteful fits of piousness.
the hand that rubs my body down takes the shape of golden scarab; sets aflame my eyes of beaming azure & finds in me a willing servant.
the hand that rubs my body down wakes me at dawn, partnered with an extension of pinpointed warmth: the touch of her breath upon my cheek.