This Hand

This hand does not stop it’s dutiful dancing on pages

Gems that unravel themselves in pieces and stages

The emerald that finds my eyes, the gold in the drafts

The paper market all of a sudden, ripe to collapse

Ink prices would begin skyrocketing

All around the world

If this love be written for her

In all it’s chapters pearled

My cheeks are a seabed flowing rivers of Montrachet to wet lips

Cliff hanging down the neck and collarbone in Sajda it drips

I am the mat upon which guests wipe their dirty boots

The cow’s dung mixed in with the soil to plant roots

It’s from الله