Grasp

 I cry out for a hand.

From where it will come, I cannot say.

Rising from tangled weeds and bitter hay,

Greeting the first strokes of a pale morning sun.

I cry out for a hand.

Dusty fingers from traversed shelves,

Cutting themselves on the edges of blind history

But cracking the binds of ignorant suspense.

 I cry out for a hand.

The slender nail that twirls beneath the knees of giants

Arching beyond the misplaced guidance of sown spotlights,

Dancing among leaves of sawdust and the lovely eyes of dandelions.

 I cry out for a hand.

From where it will come, I cannot say.

Should it arrive by the feet of Hermes or a storm off the bay,

I shall still practice gratitude.

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[1] Whenever I grasp the hand of someone who doesn’t share my sexuality I recognize that I am also grasping the hand of change. �" Stefon Napier