His hands are soft,
almost translucent
up to his crescent-
moon cuticles.
He pulls his jacket sleeve
over healing cloudy calluses
to wrap his fingers around
a newly-pink cactus flower.
Jerusalem in his eyes,
psalms drip
from his closed lips
in the afternoon sun.
How could I ask
when the bones dried
over his still-beating
dismembered wings?
You just need to be gentle
with the small ones, he says
showing me the flower
in his open palm.
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