My Hands, My Hands

I wear trails on my tails
contrails distilled details
weather wails -- listen
the weather wails

distinct possibilities
cloud my flawless inkling
from the absurd morass
clear lines of thinking

I am the kind of man
who sleeps when waking
dreams while sailing
and screams gracefully

I mimic emotional absences
with tender truths
that stroke the earth's
swelling objective indifference

this tender grand stoicism
I grant myself in echo
and the world around me
repeats the world around me

I can find love and its copy
behind a mirror's scintillation

I can find emptiness hollowed
filled with gentle wishes

I can hear the sound of my voice
from a tape recorder
played from a computer
rhythmically on repeat

but my hands are untouchable
and, thus, incorruptible

what I mean is - they feel
and for this they are real

the weight of responsibility
with each thing I touch