His Hands

His hands reach out for the corners of wind and he is covered in shingles
made from oil, made himself.
Hard and rough, they deflect.
But they do invite me with their sparkles. Like fine mica in his skin.

I wear the dust of his shingles.
Of the dust I make my own,
plate thin shingles
on my arms and flash the armor back.

Underneath his nails
is a smell like tar.

He drives any distance for his food.

His enormous hands reach out for the sun. Feels its belly and tightens his fingers around its moving legs.

I am molten lead.
I am the light on the side
of a brick and mortar building.
Bleeding, running smooth and liquid glue.

He is tall and grasping.

I am in between his hands.

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