Cryptadian
The poem grows out of the words like a weed.
It does not recognize the borders of letterforms.
Your voice is the sound of your hands finding me
In a dream. Creating my body as they go.
The poem’s tendrils wind over and around each other
Always in a clockwise motion, like time.
Each reader is a rainfall on a spring night.
The words are not gone but are forgotten.
Even the green tangle is ignored
For the flowers floating like open hands.
Each reader is an insect, on a busy mission.
Will they come away with something?
The reader stops and looks at her hands.
She rubs them together, and a word comes to mind.
Translations from the English 
Your voice is the sound of your hands finding me in a dream. Creating my body as they go.
So graceful and lovely!
Thank you! Most of these lines did not come in the order in which they appear. But in the composing they started to fit together in their own order that actually seemed more cohesive (and coherent) than the first draft. With this poem it made sense to let it revise itself somehow…
I came away with something, as always.
Thanks Ann!
Still loving this one!
Thanks, Jessa. The poem just got a little better, I think. Each time a discerning eye reads a poem, personalizes it, it grows a little, understands itself a little better.