Let me remind you of my hands, which have not felt love
in so long they ache of tendinitis
that strengthening will not help
whose ligaments are not dancing
little finger that once spliced over
a body that moved in time Tell me
time, track backwards an old
twist of words--what is motion,
something foolish, a wrist
something foolish, a wrist
so half-heartedly broken
and sprained in five places
while ash bristles the side of the chimney.
while ash bristles the side of the chimney.
Love, I am underneath you, I am
as if blessed by you. Tell me
time, what roundness must
I feel in order to be like
time, what roundness must
I feel in order to be like
water, clear and settled in the glass, how
tenderly it wobbles and nuzzles
toward the edge, tipping, undulating
being shaped by the hard edges
of a terribly breakable thing.
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