When your hands pretend to pray, even the sky is convinced and supplies appropriate lighting. Sometimes your hands take you dancing. This way, your left hand might say as it pushes aside a curtain of shattered glass. No, this way, your right hand says—Here, steal these flowers from a cemetery. Now you kneel to cup a pool in your hands. You rummage through a waterfall. Now your hands drift over a forest, screeching like a pterodactyl. Small creatures hide from the shadow of your hands. But it is all the same dance, the dance of your hands leading the way. Your hands push the sun into a cloud. You pull evening toward your belly, fold it like a napkin and put it in a box. The box is in a room. The room is in your hands. No church or steeple. A bare light bulb. No furniture except for the box. You sit on the floor. Your hands nestle into your lap and go to sleep. Tonight your hands will dream about you.