This hand full of fire from banana field
sliding down your waistline sliding
touching like a hungry hermaphrodite
asking asking is there anyone down there
by the knee or the thigh or the swollen clit
sliding down with chords playing from rooftops
sliding down like a sunset high on trumpet
groping grabbing pinching scarring
this hand full of fire
reversing the course of utopia
this hand so strong irreversible
coming down on you
like freedom rain at 2am
this hand robbing you
taking away your last cents and songs
this hand aching for love that is not red
this hand losing one finger at a time
aging like the smoke at the end of tobacco curls
this hand empty
still touching and sad
this hand going down
holding your navel as burning bullet
this hand a tool
the tool
this hand
the last possession
a hand surface
sliding down to the earth
no contact yet
this baneful hand
raw, skinless
no glove
covering this
hand
no course handling
this hand
that came, saw and conquered
the mighty land
Beyond Language 
pablo,
this poem’s raw power is the hardest to tackle. i admire how you contain these sensual emotions in a poem without being vulgar and obscene.
great, tempered poetic touch indeed.
Thanks Hames, I wrote it very quickly not knowing where it would lead, like a tingling orgasm was about to erupt. I’m glad it didn’t come out too vulgar