The Things In Our Hands Poem by RIC BASTASA

In the nooks of silence
we keep things in our hands

not in the shape of a fist
but that of a dove

which coos
in the light redness of a rose

we drink no water not even dew
and be still

with the best of the few
the windows that we keep closed

one morning shall open
upon themselves less the hands

of time less the
mind of the skies


lights burst but not
with the sun

bodies are buried not with
the earth and

without the niche that
mostly life expects to see