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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=431931" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Future Of Hands</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">All winter<br>The trees held up their silent hives<br>As if they mattered.<br>But on one main street of bars and lights,<br>I watched a woman who had begged for days<br>Throw all the coins back, insulted,<br>Into the crowd,<br>And then each cheap stone on her necklace,<br>As if they were confetti<br>At a bitter wedding,<br>And then her stained blouse.<br>I smiled, then, at her dignity.<br>But when the night came<br>With only its usual stars to show,<br>She was applauded and spat on,<br>Or those passing stepped around her,<br>Avoiding her body<br>As if it had become private, or pure.<br>When the police arrived,<br>Sniveling about the cold day she had chosen<br>To strip,<br>Her face was a brown jewel,<br>And I knew the hands <br>Of the police would have to close now,<br>On this body abandoned to wind,<br>Just as her hands closed, finally,<br>On wind that would have nothing<br>To do with her,<br>And never had.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know that wind<br>Had nothing to do with longing.<br>I have seen that, even in the eyes<br>Of girls across a lunch counter--<br>A desire to be anywhere that wasn't<br>Texas, and waiting on tables--<br>Their eyes making a pact<br>With the standing, staring wheat<br>About to be turned back into the black soil<br>That spreads everywhere when no one is watching.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And writing this,<br>I stare at my hands,<br>Which are the chroniclers of my death,<br>Which pull me into this paper<br>Each night, as onto a bed of silk sheets,<br>And the woman gone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">After two hours of work,<br>I do not know if there ever was a woman.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I watch the flies buzz at the sill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or, if I sleep,<br>I must choose between two dreams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In one of them, my hands move calmly<br>Over a woman's waist, or lift<br>In speech the way birds rise or settle<br>Over a marsh, over nesting places.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the other dream,<br>There are no nesting places,<br>The birds are white, and scavenging.<br>They lift negligently over the town in wind,<br>Like paper, like the death of paper.<br>They dip and rise<br>As if there had never been a heaven.<br>Beneath them, it is summer.<br>It is the same town I was born in.<br>And in its one bar<br>The man selling illegal human hair from Mexico,<br>The hair of brides mixed<br>With the hair of the dead,<br>Argues all day over the price.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Larry+Levis">Larry Levis</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=431931" data-title="The Future Of Hands de Larry Levis" data-description="All winter
The trees held up their silent hives
As if they mattered.
But on one main street of bars and lights,
I watched a woman who had begged for days
Throw all the coins back, insulted,
Into the crowd,
And then each cheap stone on her necklace..."></div>
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