Litany For A February Day

Before, I might have dreamt
of the swirling agates of your eyes,
or the coal-colored
corn silk of your hair,
or even the velvet cushions
of your lips.
But, as I become
a more religious man
I pray silently for the soft halo
of your hands.
I do not pray the way
a kneeling Nun recites a rosary
for orphans in a Favela
or the way a penitent priest
invokes "Our Father"
before his congregation,
but how in mid-July,
a pair of blue mittens
pray from the darkness of a box
for what can only fill them
from the inside.
I wait for your hands
the way gallons of Butter Pecan
frozen behind frosted glass
wait for the mouth
that will melt it,
I coil for them
the way Spaghetti on a plate
coils for the tines of the fork
that will lift it onto
the warm wonder of a tongue.
I hunger for your right hand
small in the hollow of my back,
your left hand blessing the blades
of my shoulders.
I crave each of your slender fingers
as a smoker's lips
crave ten naked Newports.
My chest prays for your hands
the way the front yard
under its heavy sweater of leaves
prays for the sweep of a rake
to lay it bare and raise small hills.
My face imagines your hands
as a second story window
imagines the brush
of airborne blossoms.
My arms tingle for your fingertips
the way a branch tingles
under a caterpillar's feet,
my legs pray for your palms
as silk curtains drawn at night
pray to be parted
in the rising heat of morning.
And what does it mean
if my entire body
dreams of nothing but
falling asleep dotted
by your fingerprints
like a leopard
with a thousand glowing spots,
awaiting your caress
as blank paper
awaits the kiss
of the calligrapher's pen,
as rainy windshields
await the swish
of wiper blades,
as every morning
those cups stacked high
behind the counter at Starbucks
become sinners at a Revival
waiting to be made holy
by simply being held
in your hands.