I.

you would feel it.
   the bones of it.
   the drone of it.
   the arms and the fingers
   and the inscape of things
   and the sheer weight
   of it.

the mind seeks to inhabit all things,
nailing them to their stations.
indicting them to their prisons.
casting them to their sullen exiles
while the heart
       does nothing.

II.

   the hand's meager unraveling
    is its realness
   not its assumed truths.
   the parcel of the mundane shifts
  its weight across people-rivers,
  as light roves in secret strobe.

   you cannot feel it.
        the heat of it,
    nor hear it,
         trundling in its train,
   dwarfing in yonder light,
    controlling its rages.
   you can see it always speaking,
  as nobody hears a figment of
    a shadowed creature when it
     is cut in the tough ornate -
the body tries,
      the mind is asleep,
    and the heart is where all
  the frays take place.