Ghost hands keep touching Me in this sunlight space by A window where I am at work.

Small hands unfasten my armor Of indifference, and begin to scrape Away the accretions of all these Unloved and unloving years.

Pale hands keep plunging through The spidery drought cracks of skin And unstop the springs of affection Long recessed in these hard bones.

And it is these winged hands of yours Flitting over my face, which move me from Brittle speech into fluid, salty silence.