Untouched, Untouchable

Brushing clay
trying to accomplish small magic
removing all traces of my peculiar
whorls from the surface
using the same hands that left them
in the first place.
It is a strange thing, trying to remove
fingerprints from something made by hand.
It is a strange thing, trying to leave
fingerprints on something made by spirit,
a collage of deep red longing, of unaccustomed optimism,
of incalculable delight,
placed there by
hands hungry and untamed, left instead
on the surface of your skin, worlds
moving as the limping heart dares and the mind races
through night, alchemy beyond all magic, to
blushing day.

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