Hands, the fit of them, to the neck. God’s making
an end for the arm, murder, His, forgive me, my
pronoun, my rage, if in practice I lift them
to the window, morning’s jet mirror, who, and what
you did, the cracked bell within, is not evil, but to ring it
- from Michigan Quarterly Review and Poetry Daily
A daring little piece. The control of punctuation is superb. A cry. A recognition of weakness. The lifting of the hands to the window, an incomplete act of the creative nature. Potential, but nothing more. Always disassociated, fragmented, confined.