Each night as I walk
through the sculpture garden
he lies alone
his hands empty of things to do.

While I dance words through my brain
he whispers my
real name
to the darkness.

Long nights are buried in his hands-
his fingers stretch
back in time
caressing yesterdays  
small minutes.

Inside his hands
old secrets
lie almost dormant.

I send my hands to school
writing words on paper
while his hands tap
tunes on my bones.

My hands are wet fish
just pulled from the lake.
His hands carry songs
that blood can sing.