a hand rests on a wooden surface.
this image was the cheapest to be found
and i bought it for that particular reason.
getting home i sweeped the obstacles
out of my way and i opened it and it read:
the hand has a decrepit knowledge etched upon yellow
skin, violet veins. the hand with unreal fingernails
taps the wood lightly, redundantly
and in perfect, inviolable conformity with death.

i close it, fold it, caress it, lay it carefully in a drawer.
the image is safe in my forgetful drawer.

a glowing hand (young legs crossed, summer dress) restless
on the same wooden surface surprises me in an evening walk.
i had only gone out to watch the trees
but this hand leaves an imprint so warm on the glass--
the glass i had missed before but now i can distinguish,
tall, reaching the limp legs of half-eaten stars,
thick, hearing nothing, sparing nothing from its
inexorable isolation and silence-- i am bound to listen.
and yet nothing, not a sound from either side
can reach the other--
the glass so tall and so perpetual
suffocates all intentions and allows nothing
but a (hazy now, hopeless now) view

a homesick regard that invents the past but doesn't quite reach it.