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.

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