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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