Every time you lift a cup, it weakens.
We aren’t whole enough.
Even the trees tonight are hollow as birds.
Even the people peel back into nothing.
There are cobwebs in the marble.
There are souls in the drivel.
It isn’t even raining.
Here in the skin the knuckles have eyes,
The hand bent back web-footed bone.
The pain stiffening to your shoulder,
You feel the limitation of wings.
We read of a miracle, incomplete:
‘I see people but they look
like trees, walking.’