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September 30, 2002
The Iranian

Your hands
speak a secret language
pure like water
as ancient as faith
and unknown in America.
It is what my skin craves to hear
promises spoken
through your hands in my hair
tracing my back
and coming to rest in my own hands
like tonight.

Your hands teach,
they beg and demand,
celebrate joy
and worry about tomorrow
in their wisdom.

I am only a man
cursed with a man's doubts
so unwillingly I must ask
What brings your hands here?
and what intimacies are held in them?

There is so much I mistrust
in all of the world,
truth and love are among those victims --
but I will not hesistate
when your patient hands,
traveling my geometries,
stop to listen for truth
above my heart.

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