I woke up holding your hand

and it was like some kind of magic spell:
your hand – flat back of knuckle,
curling into
my palm –
fingers gently curved up,
like a Venus fly trap –
if someone took a stick
and gently pressed its tip
into the net of
palm lines
it would circle like a conch
or a rhoda-demdrum
or a rose, rising to the air
from underneath of water –
but your hand –
when I lay my thumb inside of
your hand –
it is simply held.