Hands

I

If I say the apple trees
in the orchard have been
pruned into grips and clutches of agony,
I become an unreliable narrator.
I could temper my violence by writing
about crucified power-line poles
running beside palm-crossed tracks,
but I would fail
to mention the small black perching
in a white tree, that is a bird,
singing its heart out in the gasp
of human nature.

II

I wonder about the ways
currents wrinkle together from the sides
to center the moving river like praying
hands the heart, which beats
fluttering and ageless towards a baby's curling fingers.
The way clouds flower twice
(in sky and substance)
is curious to me.
Sumac flowers into a cradle,
and there is something inexplicably kind
about the rough intercessing of the dammed
river on its way to faucets,
rushing beneath a via-rail viaduct
beyond Niagra falls.

III

They are not falling,
but sinking into disrepair.
Falling happens into season, pain
and daylight savings time.
This is because we are human,
have mass, suffer gravitations.
Iron just lies rusting where laid,
watching trees stretch into morning
between old ties, to measure
years slowly, and in rings.
Sometimes thorns: children scavenge
with thick spikes, digging
to break their nails.
Rails simply sink.