REAL HANDS

He who disappeared inexplicably one afternoon(perhaps

they came and took him) had left on the kitchen table

his woolen mittens like two severed hands,

bloodless, uncomplaining, serene, or rather

exactly like his own hands, a bit swollen, filled

with the tepid air of a very ancient endurance. There,

between the slack woolen fingers,

we would place from time to time a slice of bread, a flower,

or our own wineglass, in the calm knowledge

that gloves, at least, can't be handcuffed.