I wish your hands to be mine,
To  do with as I please.
So many hands reproduced for my needs,  like trees,
I collect them in the forest of my mind .

They wave back and forth.
Forming vines devine. Da Vinci' .
Putting them to work, so B'jork.
Caressing my face as a sculptor.
Combing my hair like a mulcher,

Against my chest to still my racing heart, Covering my mouth so stout,
Nothing comes out, no thing comes out.
The clever of my words a bounce about.
I sigh your hands be not nigh.