Not even the dream hand
Unknots you. I stretched it out
Never to placate you but
Take the wanton aback.
In your blind state… blind
Of a different kind
I fingered nose, eyes, mouth
And the ear’s sounding tribunal.
Your heart I felt. I wanted
Its telling above others.
The roar it gave forth – worse
Than any air-raid. The manning of guns.
I surmised the pulse of your being
Should be aligned with hollyhocks.
I surmised
A free flighted bird.
I surmised
Storm clouds parted –
But there, on your brow
Something painted
A peal of bells
Where your mind struck five times
Not hours spent, never the dream hand,
Neither my grace or its own
Beguiled wretchedness could impede
What was, or isn’t, there.
