The Empty Hand

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And it hums molecules, 

that are swelling weightless upon the air

 

And it writes a tracing, 

of motions paced from an exhausted night 

 

And it knows a closeness, 

that becomes immeasurable distances

 

And it grasps for internal storms, 

making calm within an empty hand

 

And it saves the spirit, 

in an aviary adrift on the arbor

 

And it waits to know, 

if our certainties are more than lambent virtues 

 

And it holds the warmth, 

as two sticks abrade spark into a fire 

 

And it becomes a branded heart, 

into the flesh of an empty hand