It's still here this morning. The hand
hanging in the eastern sky,
soft and dark in the rising sun,
a bobbing massif offering to shake
with some unseen stranger to the north,
No blood, bone, connective tissue or flesh visible at that place
where its wrist should be,
only a structure of iridescent smoke
trailing off from an unresolved truncation,
apparently melting into the ethers.
But the hand does not melt.
It persists.
It's as it was the day before
and the day before
when it picked up a monumental, yolk-colored post from beyond the setting
and scratched on the hill across the valley,
propagating a cloud of dirt which drifted towards me.
From a mile away I could hear roots cut and rocks cracked
in the muffled plowing of the post's sharp point
and by the time some word was finished
I could breathe
what was torn, see what was left behind,
a dirty sap and graphite tang in air,
its expression on the hill,
dust drifting up and off
to blend in the east
with those tailings of wrist,
building that atmosphere
where a hand abides.
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