Hands, welcoming and parting,
Everywhere, around the hips, in hand, carrying,
Patting, shaking, gesticulating,
As if a large human canvas, of emotions light and heavy,
Had surfaced out of concrete along the 22 rake coach,
Conjuring self images of myriad hues, each hand and its own brush,
Among the multitudes lay my own emotions, asthmatic and cloned,
All those words said, meaning nothing as the hands began to draw into the air,
The animated swipe with it abandoned instantly the bated breath, the rolled up words,
The visited distances, travails lengthened on the canvas, and the time disappeared into the
frenzy of hands,
While you let go your fingertips from mine.