this is the palm
of the hand
in which
i've written poetry
a letter at a time
with a soft
sable-hair brush

such poems
as you
will never read
here

tonight walking
back from
the bread store
as i search
through clouds
for constellations
our eyes drift
to our hands
interlocking

but
i can't remember
who reached
first

though
when
he noticed
that i noticed
he squeezed
hard
held tighter
and then
i knew