the muscle's in his hands are
the center of his confidence --
his fulcrum on the periphery, and
where he touches - touch - carries
back to the core. there, a blue star glowing
brighter than traditional light in its
cadence of classic rhyme and release.
however tired his eyes, they move
awake across life; crossing the tasks of
his hands, at hand. strong. but a strength
derived, he knows, from his own
powerlessness.
in the slipstream of agenda, she's a slice
of color slipping through a dark door, ajar.
a dreamer. a subliminal dance - while slumber
scarcely moves, there is a horizontal grace.
a subtle stirring; the outside suggests motion
behind closed eyes, and motion closes in again.
frantic. elegant. imbued with exhaustion for
these are the dreams one wakes from unrested.
banging into contained color to set color free,
breaking over structure, her white palms catch
the sparkle from the globe. breath is heavy.
she invokes it to use her lightly and asks the same
from his hands. still dreaming, his hands, still,
but never resting. centered.
just at the periphery.
