look at my hands, they’re not

the hands of a fisherman

they’re not the hands of a carpenter

look at my hands and tell me

how many miles do you feel

across deserts and plains, they’re not

the plains of a hunter

they’re not the deserts of a fleer

for days and nights of wandering, no,

look at my hands, they’re the

hands of a poet, they’re the

hands of an observer

a connector of concepts

I have the hands

of a moment with you