Hands

Suspend. Among ordinary light,
collect all the angels of this hour ―
the moment your knuckles rise, shining,
from new dishwater,
the frequent sound of spoon and bowl ―
and assign them to a trail of ants,
black bodies finally at rest
on a half-dressed chocolate,
a last settlement
before the aerosol of death
employed by those clean fingers
which carry on so convincingly
to equally illuminated
less deadly motions,
nesting a fork among its brothers,
lifting an emptied ankle of sock ―
passing time in holy handfuls
down plumbing paths of recent past
which never waits, not even for light
or angels.

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