Hands

Hands hold the spread of cards.
Shards from the infinite pack.

Hands pack factory boxes,
locked into a 12-hour shift.

Hands fidgety reveal a shifty mind.
Find an alibi plucked from the clouds.

Hands grip knife to cut the meat.
A meeting of steel with flesh.

Taking a beating this time again.
Hands run lines over bare-back mountain.

Fountain streams make dreams come true.

Hands are my robot extension,
expressing tension.

Hands up.

She moves she

She moves she wears
she has got  tartan tantra  on her mind.
Wild winding Scottish sex
where the Highlands meet the Himalayas,
where Nepalese Sherpas meet Glaswegian players
and it's hard to say which way round things are
when we get to this point.

She moves she holds a space -
Ruler-consciousness from head to toe, it all fits. So.

She moves she becomes the wind
and the wind becomes her.
In a flash, in flesh, in a lightning strike
her intentions are known, everywhere.

She.  She moves she seems
she upends she dreams
into mercurial streams
of neither this nor that
but between and betwixt
there is movement and there is her.

She moves she stares
in a way that is never rude.
She could stare all day
and crowds would flock
to drink from her eyes.

She, whisper it, moves me.