A Confirmation of Hands
Green fields and rice made sweeter
by this cartel of tornado believers
our eyes of needled truth.
to hold as many daisies as will fit
in our hands while cackling about wealth.
There has always been
a certain goody in the shade.
But this is not a poem of tokens
or arrows or ferns and buttons
working together for a soft space.
We ask repeatedly for symptoms,
but know the impossibility—
How to dig this tiny shell
out of the nail bed
while squirming only slightly?
Somewhere a child sings
his training in a cathedral
while outside fountains pour over
more pennies than its ducks
could ever choke.
Our youngest shields
her eyes from sun,
mouth from cocktail,
lips from man gaze.
She cocoons. She kneels
at night’s basin and is thankful
to be alone.
And still we stand chiseled.
The moon chases blackbirds on our path.