These Hands as Islands
Too much spills…
dream, as altitudes waver under body and what will
wend and wear as windpulls ground from land, body, as hand
and hand go unaccounted, sift down and ascendflesh, found in the gulf
of love, held by charity, and so it begins:round seas leap over elements,
into touch, bottom watergrasses, I. A mind becomes
hands, broad fingers parted by onesmall string, wishing to bring sunlight to the quiet
a candle makes when lit, grippedin the glow of eyelids, till my letting go of it.
Recurrence
The philosopher said it would happen
again. We'd hang something human
(like sleep) between dreams.
Call it megalomania-
a tap of hooves taking
the horse, noise from its tail,
swatting and collapsing
breath of gown. Head swung up,
then back down.
Such muscles would impale
echo, ride the dirt
trail. Will such happen again?
If one can't make it
such probably should.
The Hill Country hawk
is there, rested on a tree.
It does not care.
Thuds on thistle leave the flavor
fruited seeds behind,
to pull and flower, following
the fennel of some spot
a dandelion lands
upon, favored, recognized, a chime
in hand. Will such happen again?
What being begins
larger than what is
near? These weeds spread.
This horse. Afternoon.