Outlined in pencil,
your hands are dancing
beyond the margins of my paper.
Lost somewhat in reproduction,
I am puzzled,
not only because of the reduction in size
but also because of crumples –
the details that do not undermine the grandiosity
of those Leonardo hands
at what they are supposed to do –
they should be read, not viewed.
They wave the epithets and emblems,
they speak through me a weird language,
that I don’t speak,
that I am struggling to get the gist of,
Unhurriedly, I am sensing your skin,
touching your fingers,
making the holes along the canvas
of my imaginary piece of paper.
around my pencil –
that the ultimate destiny of your hands
is to be hung in a gallery.
My desire to pin down their meanings,
to put them in the museum,
is greater than the rest of
books, words, film screenings,
“If it was something
that ought to be seen,
I saw it!”.