id est ‘a poem about hands’

a five-legged creature, violently still
upon a binding chord of minor keys,
befitting major locks,
has with its muted exhortations
cloven wax from wick and
rue from blight and
sea from salt.
a leaf of flesh, its tangled skein
scrying spring while lined with rime,
a piquant son of deciduity
—sunward turned and hot of mien—
exacerbates decline.
and so, with efficacious speed
it flicks from word to word
and glyph to glyph,
chortling in silence at the postmodernity
with which it does the deed.