hand held

here handled dead for yet another

exhibit of that hand that will reach to

feel the cold but will not disrupt the

butterflies wing, will not capture the

monarch for fear that the flight will be

ruined by hands that will soon swat a

fly, splat a hornet, take a bribe, scratch

a car, finger a girl, take a ring, hold

another in a form that fades like soap,

that learns to make soap, that tells a

breathing being to not touch the baby

bird for then the mother will not come

back but he will point that long finger

spread it like he did to seashells to spell

his name or your hair to dry the oceans

that there it is – a broken bird on the driveway

that must’ve fallen from the tree

you pick it up with your hands

afraid of what he might do if he really notices

the blood and the bones that look like

any other