Sunday, February 26, 2006

Sleight of...


My empty hands aren’t: fresh scars
and faint, memories of friends’ hands
clasping mine, tugging me over a fence,
pulling me up from a fall. I see my palms
scribbled with fortunes and laugh —
the calloused, finite surface so small
but it’s here creation takes itself
in hand, makes things new.

1 comment:

Willie Baronet said...

Very very nice.