Wednesday, April 13, 2016

A Solid Grasp

A Solid Grasp

The telegram of the held hand
Has no stable transcription.
Like unrepeating birdsong,
Or underfoot twig snaps,
Touch has an imprecision
Far richer than precision.

Even though a double clutch –
A hand spoken heartbeat –
Is so obviously something
Known and something different
From the long slow clasp
That lasts a deep breath,
Or the woven finger crunch,
That knuckles as white as a prayer.

There are so many sentiments of the hand
And yet we'd know any new one
As though it were our own secret.
There is no foreign handguage.

Each time the fingers weave together
And ask the palms to impress one another
The juice is squeezed from an entirely new fruit
Whose pulp is the flesh of the moment –
Where two hands are trying to fuse.

The rhythms of a palm union, like a clam
Clenching and re-clenching to worship
Its own fond seclusion, can happen
At length in the large pocket
Of a winter jacket.

When the new fist composed of two fists
Pulses in a tremble of dialogue, we know.

What we know is not a message
For the mind's stenographer,
But an urgent despair and its glad cure
Arriving simultaneously
Dressed in eagerness.

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