Sometimes my hands wake me up.
They're making or taking apart something
without me while I'm asleep.
Something terribly human, concrete
like the back or pocket of a man.
I hear them from inside my sleep, working out there.
But when I opened my eyes they're still.
Just the same, I thought that maybe I'm
a man because of what they do.
With their gestures and not mine.
With their God and not mine.
With their death, if they die too.
I don't know how to make a man.
Maybe my hands make one while I'm asleep.
And when it's finished they wake me up altogether
and show it to me.