Saturday, October 07, 2006

Point of the Hand

After the heart attack, a man
opens an eye on the a train floor,
sees his own hand, as if never before,
delicate glyph line landscape.

From chicken wire and plastered rags,
my son sculpts a hand
extended toward heaven,
the pedestal a stump.
There it points still,
though by crumple of weathering years
it leans toward a point of its own.

1 comment:

Inconsequential said...

maybe the hand knows best...


I like the first half very much, any crisis risking life, gives new clarity, an altered perspective, acid without the comedown.
like reading these sorts, as a reminder to look differently at things in general. Without going through a trauma of my own.

and an artistic son to boot, does your whole family practise an art?