Skip to content

Over here the circle theme continues

without a clock, uncountable

and unmarked despite a pouring sound,

despite slight lesions in the rock.

A hand is waving, silently, from under

cover of cloud we said was blanketing

the sky, and so, indeed, the sky is blank

but for a reverie of reach and touch;

the ancient, fingered dark.

The word I was trying to recall is fungible

but it doesn’t mean what I had thought,

so now I need to trade it for

another, one that means porous, means

mutable, means a shadow can pass through

unnoticed, means you turn and nothing

before comes after, nothing takes hold.

Hand (Giotto)

Ann Lauterbach


More from
Poem of the Week

George McWhirter

The Jaguar

translated from the Spanish written by
Homero Aridjis
Ishion Hutchinson

XXXVI