grasped rarely, her hands
wrinkled and falling apart at the seams
move briskly as she walks
and when she waltzes, they seem to
die like dove wings
only to reincarnate into something
more removed from reality
when she moves them as she talks

isn't it strange? how I wish I had those hands
each vein replicated
in an effort to capture the quality that
perhaps something like me
can be used and worn in as time chugs along
instead of looking young and unscathed
instead of grasping themselves
instead of being more fleshy than a
home grown peach: let me have this.