Wednesday, April 11, 2012

rewrite: Spring Fever's Touch

Sonnet to Wrists (1)

Some might say they wear a heart on their sleeve,

others blush a facial rush so red they bleed.

Others' secretive heat of embers rise

from an ancient hearth, deep within birth’s bed.

They burn an inward brand, through met eyes

to hands withheld beyond cuff’s end.

As collared dog will snarl, chained and hackled,

so damned pulses surge to hands and pretend

in tingling wrists bound tightly by shackles,

unsurfaced, unread, unheard, unopened.

How does one release passion’s hidden lock?

It requires no key, nor combination.

Thine own hand’s end unties the binding knot

by mere touch at hand’s origination.