I was a poet once, but this love leaves me wordless.
I work with hands now, a surer craft to trap you with. I grasp yours, binding fingers into a sculpture that suggests holding more than anything else.
It is a manual labour of love, sculpting you. I find your shape in the deep body my hands take life to: you tongue wordless syllables. My mouth stops your silent one.
This is the best work my hands or tongue have made: building and discovering. This is the oratory of a double body that I frame here, as careful and as shocking as the world.