Instead of Birds

In Shadowville, this passes for a handshake.

when my right hand
crosses over my left,
instead of birds I think
of your wings, your deft,

fluttering isolation,
whose think is patterned
after gorgeous towers
in tapestry, flattened

on the wall or draped
over the back of a chair,
waiting for a hanging,
hand gliding in your hair,

twirling it on your
finger, your lips blooming
as your gaze strings me
up, from across the room.