from ever being a human hand.
And the essence of a rectangle
prevents it from ever being a skull.
Yet important people who can see
for themselves can’t get this straight.
So others have to give them a picture
of the moon burning inside a mouth
and worms nesting within a cloud
and an empty sleeve that screams.
One who knows the hollows of a skull
will have felt the remorse of a knife.
And one who truly sees the moon
will know the sadness of the twilight.
But that fool we were in wax,
he will be lifted always by emptiness
and made to embrace the music,
first of the sun and then of the moon,
and learn the ambivalence of doorways
and a dawn that looks like evening.