Familiar hands tease my throat With japes and whistles Like when we returned The albatross To it's nest and her children Hatched violently Forests in their eyes. They are my hands and The clock is heavy with guilt. Long since he and I acquainted He knows when I falter, when I ache. The clock chimes out many times Each and apology for raising His hands and so he raised mine too We match yet He is guilty, the clock And I am empty, the envelope Sealed right with a kiss A long hairy lick from a muscle Wet with power and rage. They are my hands but still The clock feels guilty.