the creased fold of your palm
enfolds a crescent psalm
embalmed with my cracked hold:

furled into a ball,
fist of the universe,
the fact of the matter

feasted on the moment
fingers free membranes
from their atonement—

followers of the voluntary thumb
founder their volitions dumb,
their touch eviscerated and numb.

but in the bud-like blooming
of your broken hand
I boycott hallways of plumules

not yet grown to bulbs,
but black and bleak,
glimpsing my sole belief

in the relief
of your gossamer palm:
my raucous song.

Brinn W.