I dare not blame the 14 Hands
for feelings I have felt
Where midnight and I meet
the moon’s shadow can’t dispel
In daylights saving grace
I justly feel that I have felt
like wicker passed round midnight’s mass
each hand is doleful dealt
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skull and crossbones
At the end of the race
make em say:
to hell with these eyes they’ve seen too much
this tongue is all rotten with tasteless buds
what ears are these they’ve heard enough
and liver? What gall you, it’s all washed up!
His sole’s so worn, all callus and rough
even nail beds torn up from climbing so much
lips like a canyon, dried, cracked and his blood
it’s cheaper than whiskey, diluted with love!
To hell with his soul, heaven’s full and what?
His brain, are you mad? It’s pondered enough.
What use is this flesh, it’s ancient as stone
he’s breathed his last breath, he’s skull and crossbones!
Shaking hands
I’m not very good at shaking hands
I just kind of put my hand out there
and well
try to match the shake of the other.
I guess I sort of know what that
says about my character, but
I’m cool with that, you know.
Sure I told him
without even saying a word — the courtesy
hug thereafter well, that’s a whole other story.
deserted summers
like fine grains
of sand
everyone I love
falls through my hands
to a beach
of salty air
and deserted
summers
I wade
at bay with the tide
which pulls me
further
and further
from the shore
a solemn afternoon
hunched over coffee
it’s 6pm and Sunday
a solemn afternoon
there really isn’t more to do
but watch passerby
smile hand in hand
planning one another’s future
in the corners of their eye
hands of men
there will always be
enough hands
to lift a boulder
or make a mess
but may there never be
enough, hands of men
to gently raise
a child
