the hands talk now
litanies of each
sculpted shadow - doves
faces, dogs in
gnarled hieroglyph
backlit so as to
in order to
in vain
try to
see the picture
where your smallest finger
becomes the horns of
mephisto, or
no, his tongue
uncoiled into light
this yellow flood
try to bend
inward
your thumb in
such a way now as to
because of
in lieu
of a forehead, a fist
still forming - and what
is notable remains
how all humor
is lost
the hands talk
in little words between
the light and walls
the yellow, yes
now lift each
of all the longer fingers
higher, until you
see some
truth
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