The hands have memory

What else have I dreamt of,

waking in twisted sheets as the blue dawn
walks the slope at the end of our beach?

The hands have memory,
the breath too.

In the sky, a letter in cloud,
a rune of ending, written
without hands, without breathing.

The hands have memory,
the breath too.

When the last dreadful minutes passed,
the blue dawn was with us.
No more embodied.

The hands have memory,
the breath too.