Remembering Hands

A heartsick evening not far from now
you, and I know I will remember hands:
fingers that fondled instead nearby things
because the warm wonder of these fingers
could never be touched, because they were inches
and also somehow long miles away:
a man much too full of drinking you and full
of himself and far too empty, all at once
and a sacrament of smoke dissolving into a starless sky:
neon everywhere eating planets from the night
in that asphalt appetite a humming city has
to swallow everything primal and green.