Your hands already know too much.

We really become one — we might wear different clothes or have different sexual preferences or lifestyles than the person next to us, but really those are just details. The person inside is looking for the same thing as their neighbor — freedom, expression, acceptance, love.

I am not from here,
my hair smells of the wind
and is full of constellations
and I move about this world
with a healthy disbelief
and approach my days and my work
with vaporous consequence
a touch that is translucent
but can violate stone.

In the end only kindness matters

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Another day, another dollar, another war, another tower Went up where the homeless had their homes So we pray to as many different gods as there are flowers But we call religion our friend We're so worried about savin' our souls Afraid that God will take His toll that we forget to begin, but Who will save your souls? When it comes to the beggars now Who will save your souls? After those lies that you told, boy And who will save your souls? If you won't save your own?

My grandmother had pale hands
that looked like sturdy veins.
She wrote poetry, too, and sang.
Though she knew few lovers,
I hope here breasts were admired
as mine are
two silver deities
two shining steeples
giving testament to the sky. — And So to Receive You

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