His Finger Wills a Shadow

His finger wills a shadow
with soft, reverent breath
weighing but a candle's flame
as to pool on my skin.

There are old battles here,
blemishes drawn there, cut
from a different life, to seep
deep as the luring, chanting
persuasions in my blood.

But with him, I know
no clock, no tearing the bone
to shake or the knees to quiver,
or the eyes to string tightropes
for walking through glass.

For him I am still,
for he locks me in
myself again, in his hands
me, until he comes in.