on a flight between

sun and winter,

i watched sign language

up a couple rows,

a pair spilling

toward each other—

aisle seats—

her calming him,

him not one to fly,

her sign language voice

i gained an eye for.

in a gallery, too

two people threw

signals back and

forth, a painting

here, a brushstroke

there, not jasper

johns but faster

motions, larger

gestures, ardor in

art, as i

mumbled to myself,

i unfold my inner

voice and tell it

to move its hands.

fingers

fold and fly

like paper cranes,

with each crease,

i wonder the signs:

what's a scream,

what's a desire,

what's a scolding,

what's a tangent,

a more-hands sandwich,

what's a song

without an ear, just

joint-bending stanzas?

"watch."

that's what all

the signs mean

to me.

i know not

a deaf one's

ear, only that

those who hear

near those who

speak are not

always such perfect

pairs, but you and i

just might be,

because i am one

who does not hear

and you are one

who does not speak,

wish

you voiced

your thoughts

wish

you spoke

my language

wish

you laid

here, so we

could translate

with a thumb-clasped

embrace,

wish

i could have

my hands on you

to tell you sorry

for not listening

to tell you i love you

for all you say,

and a final

hand-speak act,

i'd cup my hands

around my ears

and have them

listen:

to that

silence,

those

hands,

sounding-off

you.