i know the sound of one hand clapping
and, when you focus, a little tap-tapping,
the sound of your gray matter elbowing mine.
and there is the vision of simple decision
deciding to hush up the doorknobs and blind,
dappling and drawing and doodling deftly
the quietest five-fingered flapping divine.
and yet something magic
or truthfully tragic
won’t let my poor searching fingers delay
in their search for your own
in truth’s stupid way of
eluding protruding emotions’ dismay.
and so, with the notion of lovely devotion,
if you hear a quintet of digits’ commotion,
think of my fingernails swimming an ocean:
soaking up salt just to live in your lines.