he left hand rests on the paper.
The hand has entered the frame just above the elbow
to reveal a half-rolled sleeve.
The other hand is in its service;
it holds a foggy drinking glass up to a standing lamp.
(Motel furniture. Motel paneling.)
From the outside, what light strains through the drapery
is cast from the quince.
The phone rings. The hand conditioned to pick it up,
before the ringing finally breaks off.
Ujjayi breathing begins now.
|Dublin Poetry Review: Éigse Átha Cliath||Section 1 ~ Issue 21a|