A hand becomes something Other.
Skin stretched taut over the cobbled, riveted knuckles.
Suddenly, no longer is it a hand,
instead it delineates skin, bones;
folds, creases;
angles, shapes,
into a point of contraction,
destroying any familiarity it once had,
melting into surfaces.
My hand is not my own,
it now belongs to the picture 'out there'.
My hand is something Other.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This gives a scanned picture of the material existance.