Bruce Bond Hands

And weary of the long day at work,

he takes off his hands and lays them


like a belt of tools at his bedside.

Naturally the first one proves


easier to remove than the second,

but the mouth serves as a third hand


as it often does in times like this.

And as he lies with nothing to do


but think about the things he is

not doing, his hands crawl away


out the pet door into a yard

dark with stars and the howling moon.


Such, of course is the nature

of hands, to point at this star


and that, and in their pointing stitch

the stars together, piece the bodies


of gods who, like hands, would make

the world into a world they love.


Truth is, there would be no gods

if these lights had not been torn


from one another. Mother from child,

child from the child he was.


Always a body back there,

somewhere, a ghost that slipped its coat


from the armature of bone.

Sirens slit the chest of silence,


and dogs pour through with mating calls

or calls of warning. Hard to tell.


Say they are one call, that they turn

to the mirrors of each other,


like palms, and touch, shade to shade.

When a man wakes, disheveled at dawn,


he understands: sleep is work

that never quite begins or ends,


but calls the sirens of the dogs

together: the world is too damn far


from the world; words far from words

and the animals that made them.


Still there is a tenderness

to the questions answers long for,


a one-eyed star of joy that fades

so we who wake might dream of it.


It’s up there. In there. I see it. These hands

like doves on the arms of day.



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