the two hands of me make inimical gestures
that only long after betray the one tune
though they have the same taste in throats
they go to their crime disgusted with kinship
the right has to act as if crazy for order
the left as a dawdler dangling by water
on sundays they plan suicides for each other
splitting time's atoms or drowning in feathers
between them i can't shape my own signposts
if i go out of doors i end up inside me
on mondays though jobs have to be done - throats
walk the pavements for hands to look out for
i use one palm with the other's fingers
that way i get the blood for both worlds
