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Poetry: Metaphysics

 

 

Conductor

These are the hands
of a God, hands
whose slight touch
is not light, but
         just so,
perfection, without
tenderness or
caress;
      hands which form
sound, round
             but not full,
empty hands, full
of cutting, full
of shapes unfilled:
                    the hands
of a dead God,
through which power flows,
making them lean,
                  hands
that have stroked
the panther, and held
paper fans,
             now create worlds 
of imaged excellence,
of jewels and
bloodless glass, unstained.

Hands
that strangle
the songs of angels, and
disembowel, bare,
                  seraphim.
These hands, the hands
of a dead God.
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