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Poem	the two hands of me make inimical gestures that only long after betray the one tune though they have the same taste in throats they go to their crime disgusted with kinship the right has to act as if crazy for order the left as a dawdler dangling by water on sundays they plan suicides for each other splitting time's atoms or drowning in feathers between them i can't shape my own signposts if i go out of doors i end up inside me on mondays though jobs have to be done - throats walk the pavements for hands to look out for i use one palm with the other's fingers that way i get the blood for both worlds
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