Confession

oh my broken hands

how smooth the shadow falls

from the wrist into the black form

an easy softness along the ground

and my hands my hands

o my brokenness

these weak fingers with their throbbing grasp

these shattered strands of push and pull

that have fallen limp like puppet strings

cut and left to drift across the stage

my hands are broken

and yet how smooth they look in these simple shadows

how well formed in grace they glide

over obstacle above each creviced crack

and yet against the silent weight of air they scream

how silent the shadow

while the form shrieking flies

a clumsy weary path back from the cold land

and on again looking for a less weary sun

how smooth my smile lays beneath the glossy layer

how light the paper drifts from breeze to breeze

how graceful the shadow

and O - O how broken I am.