…SAINTS’ HANDS ARE LIKE OURS…

[reponse to lace inLakes ]

The pond is all laced-up with thumbs it sends you back to a name you used to speak thick like the snow shaking from the trees You know while it keeps falling there’s a chance of sun or a chance of shadows anyway like prints on the carpet running across the frozen pond There’s a chance you should’ve gone after the tracks but what in the name of heaven could you hope to find In any case there’s an equal chance of lack or of pathology things that make it hard to see other things Lingering into your inner ear is the insistence of slow looking of watching the laced-up pond till it moves breaks cracks runs toward you and the trees in one rush the locked-up thumbs wrapping twisting around each other hooking and holding still

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