To write what is human, not escapist
that is the problem of the hand moving
apart from my body.
Yet, subject is
only pretext for assembling the words
whose real story is process is flow.
So the hand lurches forward, gliding back
serenely, radiant with tears, a million
beings and objects hypnotizing me
as I sit and stare.
Not stupefied. Not aching.
Today I am one. The hand jauntily
at home with evil, with unexamined feelings,
with just the facts.
Mind and body, like spikes,
like love and hate, recede pleasantly.
Do not be anxious. The hand remembers them.
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