These hands are stony patient hands
Not sedimentary stone, laid bit on cautious bit by the langourous
limestone waters.

No, these hands lived hot and liquid happy
Not knowing they were hands; ignorant and igneous
Till the ceiling broke and they learned up
And they learned cold.
And they knew hard.
And learned that they were hands, pick-handle raw
And learned to roll a cigarette
With no paper or fill
Nor lips to puff or lungs to burn.
They learned to rest and ache and split.
And hold another hand, though callous numbed.
They learned early and they learned coffee.
And dug and dug a mile down or two.
And said finally, this grave ain’t deep but we are through digging.

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