The Warmth of Ten Fingers [https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/1081627664932159620/1148820475057815553/anti_pirate_graphic_-_walking_in_sky_-_poetry_vol_1_-_white.png]

Dreams refuse to maneuver out of mind.

I listen with ears of patience,

wait until they are wheat-worn white.

They are a thoughtless, tapping-temple

thumb drumming

while I rest with window facing chair.

They occupy my space,

until I lose my voice,

loose my hair,

become and disappear.

These dreams are constant sets,

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

plays that lack memorized lines.

Every room is of kitchen kind.

The scenes are of unfed pets,

who are domestic, resenting.

The costume, a pink picked dress,

pressed

and each hair of mine

made French, fresh, twined.

This elaborate gown

is not my bare, black desire.

I wish for a vision of fingers

to work these mean arms free

and take this false skin from me.

I scrape each bowl and plate chaste.

My face is young peach clean.

Mad beauty is an easy mother;

she recalls essential sleep.

-Kat Isacson

[https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/1081627664932159620/1148820475057815553/anti_pirate_graphic_-_walking_in_sky_-_poetry_vol_1_-_white.png]