Glass Poetry Press

Volume Five Issue Two

Lizzi Vignali

Hands I've Held (II)

Angular and alien your fingers hook through mine as if by accident. We leave them there, caught, and pretend not to notice our hearts displacing reason in our chests. The trees are fuzzed yellow-green with spring. Cherry blossoms choke the gutters — drown in Decemberlike rain. Your fingers are like bare winter branches. I wish I could go back to December. Back to the bare simplicity of naked branches and dormant earth, before the urges of spring complicated everything.