these hands are made to reach out and feel
everything that weighs upon them, the light
of stars, the volume of the Sun, no metaphor
these hands raise, test, the elasticity of it all
these hands claw up mountains, cleave them
and make new valleys; if only we could bear
the weight of these hands and all they hold
we all own this responsibility, the shame
there is no way back, the path these hands walk
to the altar to lead the sacrifice, draw the blade
as if it were not really part of us, hold it aloft to the Sun
for blessing, then drive all that feeling to the heart
believing that is where it belongs, as if
these hands are now the hands of God
konkrete pome Maxwell, W.
Peterborough Poets 