Wednesday, March 9, 2016

Constructive by Heather McHugh


You take a rock, your hand is hard.   
You raise your eyes, and there's a pair   
of small beloveds, caught in pails.
The monocle and eyepatch correspond.

You take a glove, your hand is soft.   
The ocean floor was done
in lizardskin. Around a log or snag   
the surface currents run

like lumber about a knot. A boat
is bent to sea—we favor the medium   
we're in, our shape's
around us. It takes time.

At night, the bed alive, what   
teller of truth could tell
the two apart? Lover, beloved,   
hope is command. Your hand

is given, when you take a hand.


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