Weeping, I contemplate divinity.


    Erect a temple to hands.


    No statue of interlocking fingers, no


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    Bodhisattva carved in calm repose—


    My hands are crueler than that.


    Make it a church of cupped cheeks


    And creaking fists. An altar of aching


    Bones and sundered skin, a shrine


    Of regret and repentance.


    My hands are a confessional.


    Old and haggard things,


    Let these weary hands rest.