Left handed poem by newspaper editor on eve of election

Left handed poem by newspaper editor on eve of election

My right hand is already sleeping in a dream of your hand
I look the final hour through today’s glasses

So I can focus on the details waving like grass in a wind
Of glass, the wind’s larger motion a single word

(yet the wind wants to join my hand in a dream of form
The shape of our bodies weaving a word that won’t

Come back to me) the day turns like your back
(it may never come back) and the new day wanders

In like a cat out of the dark which always means yes
As if hunger were affirmation and not direction

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