Jack Tricarico
Like tendrils moving beneath clear water
Her hands form an enclosed sovereignty
In a sunken dimension that encircles
The words of men
Like the word ”god”
Which she kneads with soft fists
And the word “myth”
Which she spools on her thumbs
And the word “fact”
Which she smears in her palms
And the word “guilt’
Which she clasps on her wrists
And the word “love”
Which she lifts with her cup
While the men who do not notice
Recede in the chatter
Of their meandering discourse
That fails to unnerve
The impervious waitress
Who waits for our order
Like dust in a vacuum
Compared to my own
The blind girl’s hands
Are like the shape of breath
And mine like the hands
Of accomplished assassins
Still, they can paint clouds
With a tar brush
And with fingers embraced
They exchange their regrets
For whatever was left undone
Unattempted, or never imagined
From the earliest dawn of the world
Surrounding the contours of things
That have the color of twilight
And the established composure
Of the blind girl’s hands
