Cold Bodies Going into Warm Places

The hand that clicks and calyx, a flower
which shakes for sunrise like a child,
undreams the nightmare that empowered
the fingers folded then compiled
to lose their soul, a reddish color
and lose their mind, a seed thing smaller
than sunlight dim--the feed that brings
the hand to glow as golden rings
and open full and fresh as lovers
with arms outstretched and lips apart
with skin agog, a textured art.
The palm is smiling then uncovers
itself from pedals, pockets thin,
to talk through shadows. Day begins.