Friday, July 2, 2010

Body Poem #2 (hands) (also "Sorry, what?")

I am too interested in my hands.
They are the top of me, the builders I rely on, alone
useless as the idea of specificity. When you speak it’s them
I look to for a response—one raw
material, the other loom
and shuttle. Their counterpoints are your eyes
and lips. If I see them when awake,
then I am speaking. If I'm asleep I see myself there,
in their shape and decay.

But this is just a dream-diary of our conversations—
what I saw, laid out like sea-glass on a towel, separate from context—
a clumsy renegotiation of cause and effect.
For once there has been no misunderstanding; my hands, two hermit crabs
live where they find space.

No comments:

Post a Comment

About Me

My photo
All text on this page may be reproduced anywhere, by anyone. I'd prefer attribution but don't require it. There is no need to ask if you may use it (that permission is given here) but I would love to see/hear about how you have used it.

Followers