"Hands."
My knuckles are white and facing me
look like a range of mountains.
They knock on doors, beat rhythms on the box of a guitar,
and bend my hands in two.
I hold a rock.
Difficult to break it comforts me.
I throw it over the lake, and watch
the circles expand from it.
The hand that threw it is strange to me.
I touch the water, and it sings at the ends of my fingers.