Lisa Hannigan – Nowhere to Go
She spoke to me of hands,
that afternoon.
And I dipped mine in sands as
we all knew.
She showed me delicacies, in depth
topography.
Perhaps, it was lost on me.
I said,
“I think mine forgot all of these
intricacies,
or they were burned off in my
infancy.”
“Look” she spoke, coaxing smoke to
speak “It wasn’t me.”
“They’re there.” pulling my hands from
sea bones.
Telescope eyes focus, begin and I
atone.
I sky scanned and saw sails that
drew me in.
Wind that need these thin threads,
that bleed.
Knead thoughts, by now she had
the read.
Impede. She cannot know about
image: Unidentified photographer
Seasinks
acraein 
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