sometimes i want to write things only for myself. this is for you, anyway, but i don't know why.
don't ask me for an inventory of thought to draw concepts to figures: questions to which white begging hands cannot answer
but of their essence
ask me only of the existence of my hands each finger of mine recollects the past rolled sylphlike into the lines of your palm
to assure you that the need is real it will always exist to comfort you to tell you, when hands cannot beg, hearts will it will cradle your world into direction