HANDS

When they touch what they touch the hands 

are no longer hands—sculptor becomes the sculpted.

In them they carry, like memory, baptismal waters, 

a feathered grace, kiss as healing thread. Eyes

that surprise. Praise: a surrounding sound.

They are what they are because the playa fired them 

in its kiln. Because the angels took them in 

as orphans and suffused them with a light as bright

as sun off sword—held by a knight brigadined to love.