A Hand

    Nor is it palm and knuckles¹，

    not ligaments or the fat's yellow pillow，

    not tendons， star of the wristbone， meander² of veins³.

    A hand is not the thick thatch⁴ of its lines

    with their infinite dramas，

    nor what it has written，

    not on the page，

    not on the ecstatic body.

    Nor is the hand its meadows of holding， of shaping—

    not sponge of rising yeast-bread，

    not rotor pin's smoothness，

    not ink.

    The maple's green hands do not cup

    the proliferant rain.

    What empties itself falls into the place that is open.

    A hand turned upward holds only a single， transparent⁵ question.

    Unanswerable， humming like bees， it rises， swarms⁶， departs.