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hands :: andrew waterman

by on August 3, 2015

It is the hands
live on. I watch
wonderingly out of
the skull’s shell

their slow underwater
tensionings wring
suds through a shirt,
their firm grasp

to puncture a can
of coffee releasing
the fresh aroma.
Peeling an orange

or in a mirror
knotting my tie
they flex intricately
like animate things.

How peacably now
they rest, lightweight
on knees, blue-veined,
dusted with hair,

before moving
unfalteringly on
to construct the spare
scaffolding of deed

assuring tomorrow.
They dress me to meet it;
record on this page
its intimations.


From → poems

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