My Hands

My hands never sit where I tell them to.

Instead they go chasing after the visions in my dreams

Like a seagull pecking bits of bread from a beach.

For the bird bread can mean survival

From the sea of grey and its turbulent waves -

She must work to remain above its spray; flying

Close to my thoughts - which chase me like shadows.

Not nearly as frightful as my jealous palms

That now behave and listen -

And rest, finally, like good children;

From the world - lightly

Upon my thighs.