I looked at your hand-

it was very common,
that. it showed no work
of sorts, only the quiet work
that showed behind your eyes-

and when I touched your
hand there was a sun out.
it was that time when it
was warm in winter. when
last I swam in the winter, in
the warm water by the

islands, not far out at sea.
I left your hand, by its book,
and found the sun was gold
and unpleasant for being


your hand is gold. and I am
standing away in the january of
small dark birds, watching the
sun fall across the
mild sky