Not even the dream hand
Un-knots you. I stretched it out
Never to placate you but
Take the wanton aback.
In your blind state… Blind
Of a differing kind
I fingered nose, eyes, mouth,
And the ear’s sounding tribunal.
Your heart I felt. I wanted
Its telling above others.
The roar it gave forth – worse
Than any air-raid. The manning of guns.
I surmised the pulse of your being
Should be aligned with hollyhocks.
I surmised
A free flighted bird.
I surmised
Storm clouds parted –
But there, on your brow
Something painted
A peal of bells
Where your mind struck five times
Not hours spent – never the dream hand –
Neither my grace or its own
Beguiled wretchedness could impede
What was, or isn’t, there.