I like the moment when my hand
opens up a window to the unknown

polar winds, a vintage of lifetimes and stories,
now caressing my combusting skin.

For an instant, we are sand: constrained and
docile to the invisibility of our surroundings.

A neon moon brings me in touch with my
most primitive instincts: claiming ownership of

the next wrong step and a turn that is a season too late.
Cha cha cha... Your hands of oak center me in

a forest of penetrating humidity and darkness where
you are trapped in the comforting walls of a 

perennial stalactite - robust and fragile - as I 
await to surrender to the next cutting breeze