Her Hands Move

Her hands move
like fibers of glass
in fire. I imagine brilliance
in their touch.

Her lips are wings,
frozen in flight, sharp edge
into the wind; her face
hovers, aloof.

Her eyes are silent
and dark, they
suspect me of everything
I've ever done.

The whole body
is liquid, shoulder and breast,
thigh and waist, flow gently
into bronze.

Her hair, just now,
lifts mildly on the breeze,
coils, unfurls,
deliberate, serpentine.

Uncreaturely creature, teach me
to live one with you and the naked branch
terrible gentleness,
alone and afraid.