“I Cry for Cicero”
The feel of the ground fifty feet from the water
Is unlike the swell of the sea,
Or the look in your eyes in a light drizzle,
Or the Catacombs underground
Or the feel of the day
When the day is closeted by memory.
I will never desert my hands,
They are a part of my memory,
More substantive than anything written
And they speak to me. I cry for Cicero
Whose hands were nailed to a wall.
The feel of our hands on a day of hard work
Chopping wood or plowing or digging
Roots in a field is worth twenty days in sunlight.
If you let it go now you will never recapture
The phantom rhythm that is in the wind
On a starless night
Stepping over broken limbs
And around downed trees.
What is it that is carried
In a gust suddenly occurring
With your hands tight at your side?