Tonight I wear the gloves to hide the hands. I cut the fingers off to touch you. They are cloud and black. Two blue shoes to kick off before I jump in bed with you. You let me leave my socks on. My hat to hide a nest I keep on my head- the birds have all left and now all I have is bats in my belfry. No long sleeves. I have to move to let the blood flow to fingertips to let love grow. Fingertips are how I love you. If I lose them I will lose my love. How will I love you without my hands? I could not profane your breasts with stumps, so I love my cracked and shredded hands that become special when they touch your face, your hair, your thighs. Touching you in the dark is the best love poem I can write for you. No rhyme but lots of rhythm you produce for my tongue to release- long syllabled words without consenants. My spoken word for you is a language only lovers speak. The best words are made on the intake, the uncontrolled and violent, wild and gutteral. The words from the back of the throat are closest to the heart, and the words I trace on your skin are the best ones I've ever written.