leo lutero

My Hands are Dead (a poem)


My hands are dead
scarred and old.
But they are going
like wind.

They have worked
hard. Letters, paper,
wood, flesh but
none of them will remember.

My hands are not capable,
unlike His. Laying tense on the
lightning rests of His chair. I am
not jealous, but ashamed.

The hands fall off, to the ground.
I am now weak and poorer
but nonetheless
I have become lighter.

Holes (a poem)

-Three Sphinxes of Bikini, Salvador Dali

Like a maniac

on the letter bed

I key in poem after poem.

 

My hands try to grasp

while I fear falling down the

holes which I have seen

on my way here.

 

They surround my feet everywhere

I go. But I do not mind them.

So they turn into vacuous holes,

sucking me in – Ignore them!

 

Now it seems they are winning

just like before. Their whir, I hear it!

It bothers me.

If I am to go down,

 

I will understand

when I shouldn’t.

©