John Grey

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You Touch My Hand

Your hand departs the rest of your body,
crosses the table, alights on my knuckles.
Maybe you're not even there.
But the fine bones of your fingers are.
And the gentle trace of veins.
Such a distance a body part can overcome.
It can work its way around cups and saucers,
avoid the sharp blades of knife, the prongs of forks.
I wonder if it goes where you tell it to go
or does the mindless really have a mind of its own.
And how delicate the touch of this enigmatic voyager.
How soft to the eye the arrangement of its contours.
Who knew flesh could whisper, that skin was truth,
that feeling speaks more for feelings than the tongue.

Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Xavier Review, White Wall Review and Writer's Bloc with work upcoming in Poem, Prism International and the Cider Press Review.