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The Hand of God (Free verse) by Christof
His morning alarm bolts his eye to his hand
White sculpted wraith
In the dawn demi-light each knuckle is sand
Moulded by faith
It is tomorrow's story, a sleeping claw
A waiting gavel
It is the liminal instinct, the underground roar
Of an unguarded rabble
It is wall and chink, a shadow witch
A one-winged bird
It is the wound which it inflicts
It is a word
He flexes each finger and each nail inspects
And assesses his power
And reaches his hand out and presses Reset
For he is not ready at this kind of hour.
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| Anonymous | 207.119.185.14 | 7 | August 29, 2007 5:34 PM PDT |
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