Your hands do not close.
For your hands are beautiful, and we held
within them whether we writhe or rest.
It is repose
from the furious contingent, healed
permanence, that you released
in such opening,
a hand, like a book, to record much
more than the scars the pen inflicts,
you record also the uninflected
margin, much larger, awaiting the smallness
of our hands, rising up after
inking the page.
