It could be a late night phone call, or a note
you find troubling the bed. It could be
a telegram you can’t help going back to,
but something has died, or has
left you, and you can’t remember which.
You do know that you sit alone, that you
have ten strange fingers, and that something
whistles in your lungs. Odd, the way
a face hangs so heavily, and can seem to pull
you over, can seem to pull you down.
If your hand were to change, become something
altogether different, say, a grip of flowers, or
a club of dirt, you might understand
the strangeness, might say out loud, There, now
that’s the problem; something’s changed my hand to dirt.