Little Instruments


little instruments

the lace of her fingers guide her to worlds unknown

like trains they travel the pen to the paper

the palm rests and sleeps until it is wakened 

just to smudge the basil from her own mouth— or the watercolor on her lips— or is christened with ink when the typewriter storms

her hands, are home sweet home and never fail to tap-dance when telling a theatrical tale, or perch at her lip when her mind’s turning as a record player

or ever hesitate to take his hands, close them in hers and transmute her world, her thoughts, that lead him into the unknown.



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