and the poem of the hand,
a breathless trope, a floating hieroglyph,
seamless as water.
Then the hand spoke, and the hand said
“Let there be meaning,” and the meaning sang:
“Let there be love,” and the hand
shaped itself another hand of clay.
Now, where there had been
but one meaning, there were two.
So the hands wrestled all night
till they saw it was pointless.
So together they shaped themselves
a cunning tongue, to arbitrate.
Now, where there had been two meanings,
there were three.
And the hands wrung one another,
abashed, and the tongue took over.