Bare Hands

I could do this once, could put this pen
To this paper and draw you galaxies
Between the lines, compare your whisper
To the breath of some angel I prayed to once.

I guess I’ve atrophied by now, and I can’t
Produce bouquets of stardust or spinning
Globes of light when I reach behind my back–
Are my bare hands good enough for now?

I’ve got a feeling that next bouquet
Is only going to be full of flowers
And that next globe, full of continents.

And these hands won’t be any less cracked
And full of lines than they’ve always been,
Full of ridges that would fill with sensation
At your approach and overflow at your touch,

And those galaxies won’t be any fewer
Light-years away than they’ve always been,
And that angel won’t be any less
In a heaven I can’t get to yet.

I’ve got a feeling the next galaxy
I show you will be past the tip of my
Outstretched finger beyond the vault of the sky.

And the next time I promise to show you
The world, I may only be climbing in your
Window at midnight, holding out my hand
And asking you to take a drive to nowhere.

Are my bare hands still okay?