You throw nonsense words like tambourines
against the flat of my palm,
press them gently in the tensing wait
for the next off-
when all your bells shall scream at once,
violently against my palm.
I'll gasp, cringe and pull you close again,
In knowing you my hands have voice,
imperfect language of skin and shiver.
What wants to be said I will say
on the next
softly, under handclaps like confessional thunder.