Farsick

My hands are farsick for 

touch that penetrates 

space between fingers, 

bones inside their own.

A love that is naked 

of skin.

Seen, but unseen,

there, but not

there is a 

river in the folds 

of my flesh,

yet I am parched.

A dry fire that blooms 

poppies from the ash 

in my throat.