Hands Freeze
my fingers no longer onboard,
rejecting the design,
callous toward volition.
on strike, protesting the boss,
perched as crooked cripples stuck,
vulgar in some harsh hunger:
claws of a vulture
needy to plunge into warm ooze.
they are bars of a cage,
insurgent to trespass common sense
and disprove every philosopher
who thought the soul real--
for i am nothing, construct of candles,
cogworks under follicle and pore,
a creature of travail and spark.
one by one, the sparks cease,
snuffed by the runty staves atop my palms;
victims of that mechanic known as Physics,
frostbitten Shepherd,
herding my numb thoughts home.
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12/29/25 .. cosmetic stuff (which it never is ...)
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