Manipulate

I was once a lapdog

but the day I found

my stink was the day I grew

my teeth was the day I buried

myself in a shoebox and lapped

my soul from cupped hands and

realized I had hands.

What work is there for hands but making

planets? But tickling blades of grass up

and brushing through a field at full-speed caress?

There is more, there is much more than making planets,

than planting daisies or scribbling walls of sprawling spray-paint rants

to crack your knuckles at.

There is a kind of silence

digging in the ground,

as pounds and pounds

of hope are shoveled out, are piled aside

a space to hold a new word

or the quick rush of realization.

What work is there for hands but shaking

out the terms from nonsense verse?

But boxing the world

and twiddling for a turn at naming formless clouds?

There is more, there is much more than shaking out the terms,

than hoisting up the sails, than rubbing down the rails,

than flattening the map and pointing where you are.

I was once found

in the shoebox of growing up,

cupping water from the sink,

when a real life realization

handed me the world.