hands in the AIDS hospice house
LYN LIFSHIN
one just touches
itself one is
eating its own
fingers one is
having nightmares
inside an old sock
dreaming of injury
one can't stop
shaking one hides
its rings one will
never know how to
touch one is smelling
where it was
one is stained with
the juice of words
one just wants to
touch words one
will never get
warm one dreams
its dark places
disappear that its
fingers smell of
somebody else's
skin. One knows
what to do with
whatever it holds
ones burned itself
from touching what
was too hot or too
cold it's grown
scar tissue so
tough it hardly
feels. One grows
roots into a cup
of whiskey feels
ghosts in the dark
and turns this
into music
