This shadow passing over your hand,

its bones like peacocks’ claws,

yellow waxed scales through diffuse colors.

Along the road’s edge pale amberish grass,

each flexible high stalk capped with a seed pod.

Stored in unknown places in the skull,

confetti; temporal torn bits of the fractured whole.

Like flocks of small dark birds,

hidden parts of the self weep at these narrow

places of salt marshes crowded along

honeycombs of steel and plastic.

It will not resolve itself, the mystery of building blocks,

the runaway brutal, the power of nothing to multiply.

Turning the hand over to become the palm,

for a moment it can shape itself to a cup of water.