With hands free my words can drip from this pen. From the peak of a mountain of consonants I can vowel at the moon. I hunt in the crook of many fingers. I am a word caster of light. My photons land deep like throwing stars. My touch is the circuit of mood. These thumbs can hitchhike over the ocean. These pinkies can swear in the secrecy. These rings can have and hold. This middle one can curse the traffic. And underneath a pointer steeple sits a church of fingers. Nestled in two palms on a midnight Sunday rests a candle. In our grip we share a single light spread around this congregation. We count each bright digit like a game of this little piggy. To ten and back again. We hold our hands free.