Things my hands

become when I touch him. Slipping my hands underneath his bright head, I said. We are still. Slipped under pinnings of holly and polishing. And brave. To say we were, like our bodies were, together, opium under our white arms and legs. In the crevice, froth; we lay like lay, distant from the imposition, piffling shippings. My mouth is as my hands have done.