MIN·UTE HAND

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Quixote-infested dreams

Buzzing through phases of disbelief

I’ve found the windmill of my fantasies –

Languid strokes across the air,

one chasing after the other

Dusk falls, flooding our world with flashes

of mulled wine colored lips, parting

on mushroom-shadowed tips, enthralling

Digits savoring the pressure

of touching another

Circling the nucleus of failed progression,

all wound up, to welcome a hand

that never reverses