Unheld Hands

 

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Ghosts of birds trapped between empty fingers. 

 

 

My hands can make impossible

Emptiness. They can build

A cat’s cradle, for all that’s worth.

They can hold a cup

Of air to my parched lips. If I bridge

My fingers at the tips, I can see

The absence of birds

Outlined between them: watch,

They cannot fly. Or else,

An empty shell echoes to my ear a

Deafening silent sea. I can even

Make a church, design

A steeple for it, and inside

For all my patient fingers,

It remains alone. On their own

These hands can make much

Out of nothing. But they

Can form so much more, align

Planets and stars, grasp at

The universe, as long

As they hold yours.

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