Without offering more:
A Litany of Miracles
Take a look at the hand
that holds the pen or floats over keyboard
as though not attached to your humanity.
Ghost pale in glowing light, flex it, fingers
move in ways at once simple, beautiful,
light, impossible. Who would have thought such a
stretch was mere bone in flesh and not the pure
motion of the divine?
____________________What could be more
perfect, a better pointer to what is
beyond motion? No sign you can see shows
at the surface of skin, and yet it moves
the hand, powered by a stream of human
current, the shocks and jolts of jumping nerve
impulses across a chemical sea--
a distance so vast and so perfectly
spaced that everything moves together, so
a jazz-hand dancer, then a fist, then what?
Whatever the hand has been trained to do,
whenever it has been shown to move--all
motion not its own.
I like this poem.
I like the line, "a jazz-hand dancer, then a fist, then what?"
And "all / motion not its own" reminds me of Roethke's "I'm martyr to a motion not my own."
Cayo hueso? Que significa eso?
Dear Dylan,
A cryptic reminder to me. Perhaps it will take.
shalom,
Steven