Hand

Till the world ends and the eyes are out and the mouths broken
Look! It is there!

—Archibald MacLeish

Gray light through the blinds.

Walls like some undersea cave.

Dark, dark.

Your hand is hard. Big as a bear paw.

"I had slim hands," you lamented, once.

Your bear paw is cradling something, a circle, a half globe.

Her head turns. Her curls slide over each other, pressed between skull and fingers.

She is, I am, elsewhere, dreaming.

I am, she is, as near to you as the words you read now, as my head in your hand, my thoughts, yours, even in sleep.