your fingers brush my palm
outward, outward, again, again…
Hands
Tree branches weave tapestries above my head…
take the cloud into your hands,
squeeze out the sugar,
squeeze out the air…
Magritte speaks to me,
even when I can’t make out the words…
I am hollow,
perhaps,
but not empty…
Her shoulders
are slight, yet solid
under my hands,
she takes up so little…
hear me out
someone sat down one day and was like
‘dudes this whole spoon and hands business isnt making us enough
so what if we like took some sticks…
He stands,
looking out the window,
looking at the world,
seeing his world
with the hole ripped in it…
one hand open
to welcome the gray area,
other hand clenched
to represent
the size of my blood pump,
according to third-grade
biology, pulsing….
The world
will come apart
in your hands…
Daily Poets 