Alphabets

Give me your words and I will give you myself.

Tell me your name, for in return,

My hands belong to you.

Your voice is carved in my fingernails.

Then, sometimes, I think I hear a whisper,

And write graphite answers in the creases of bay leaves.

I’ve been taught to keep silent about my copper wires.

But you still speak to me on beds of white sheets.

Because when winter turns to spring,

This rite can be only yours.

Does my Latin amuse you,

As the branches of maple grow above your head?

My best attempt was saved for today.

My alphabets are incomplete, so long as

Your words contain my letters.