I am the hand of death
in a fringe of lace.
The tar mouth bubbling wheat
from a core of soap.
Icicles of bone's blood
shooting droplet hearts.
Muffs of steel
scratching eager arms.
Yards of mice in rows
crawling into a metallic light.
Years in rubber-wrapped parchment
aching for the lines of a studying palm.
Owl eyes in retreat
from an owl body.
Star pebbles eating
through the bucket sides.
And a foppish haircut
crawling stone and yeast
to drape what dreams regret.