KWAN YIN'S BLOSSOMS IN WEYMOUTH

SUDDENLY,"MY" HANDS ARE MY FATHER'S HANDS ON
EARLY -MORNING-BUS-SEAT-RAIL-BEFORE-ME.
HANDS THAT HELD ME,THAT DID NOT KNOW THEIR OWN FATHER'S HANDS
THAT SAVED ME FROM MY BABY-TEARS-AND-FEARS
AT THE END OF THE ORCHARD UNDER BLOSSOMS.

AND THE SOFT-SLIPPERED LITTLE-LADY
CLUTCHED AT "MY" HANDS WITH MY MOTHER'S HANDS
AS I STEADIED HER HOME ONE NIGHT
WITH HER PAINTED NAILS AND RINGS ON HER FINGERS AND BELLS ON HER TOES,"HE SHALL HAVE MUSIC WHEREVER HE GOES" MY MOTHER SANG UNDER BLOSSOMS.
AND MOTHERS ARE MOTHERS, OH! WHERE DO THEY GO? WHERE DO THEY GO?

THESE HANDS ARE TO HAND-OUT
AND HOLD-OUT
AND HANG-ON-TO.
AN OFFERING OF
OUR HELPING HEARTS
UNDER BLOSSOMS.

(winter 2011/2012
written on the road
around Weymouth)


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