Polished and packaged, grotesque,
The fingers tapered
Like those a harpist might have—
What music would it play?
Probably none-
The intricate strictures in the glass
Would indicate otherwise.
An ordinary hand,
One without pain or distinction,
Except that it’s here, except that it’s waiting,
The object of no one’s desire:
For look at the cut-there,
Below the palm, above the wrist:
A hand that offers itself, a hand to be kindled…
There is no hand for such hands, no pocket.
Leave a Reply