The Empty Hand


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