Hand

I write not, from the finish line.

I write not, from anywhere near it.

I write while I run.

The fastest I’ve known.

I run.

I run with all my might.

No time to waste.

No wrong step to take.

I’m short of breath.

I’m to douse my thirst.

But no time for transient thirst.

There’s just no time to waste.

 

I write with no pen

Or hope but with trust.
A massive trust, on a hand.
That points me inward.
While I float and swim
Skin of the sky keeps me intact
With the only thread, that of
That hand in camouflage.
The hand points,
Nudging and greasing
All I spill irrepressibly,
Is nothing but poetry.