hands open
hands close
hands give expression to the soul

and if I lose the use of mine
what value then will be my life

so I shall play arpeggios while I can
broken chords
like spokes upon a wheel

none of these notes mean a single thing
but bring me joy

if temporary
all things are temporary

except for one


when my hands stop working
they turn inward like claws

everything becomes a chore
longhand an impossible scrawl

something I can’t recognize
can’t read

a busted gull pecks rust flakes in the sleet
on the old iron road into the sea


bad hands

look – no hands