Still Life

After washing the dishes
A crescent moon, white and peeling, blooms underneath
The ring finger of my left hand,
Leaking invisible golden dust
Accumulated from shedding music away from guitar strings.

After washing dishes,
Silent, meditative,
Fish in my mouth and bubbles deep in my fingers;
The edges of a cut on my thumb--
The hand I write with,
Begin to look like two lines pressed together,
Fitting perfectly
Like an ancient chinese symbol for balance.
Or like two lovers,
Who have managed to stop time and space
and learned to erase the lines humanity
Drew between all hearts.

After washing the dishes,
Both my hands are
Unravelling, curling back at the edges,
Softened of roughness.


I speak here not of a moral or a metaphor,
This poem will not end in nostalgia or sentimentality,
It is merely a meditation,
A study,
A drawing of a moment in time.
Nothing more.