Ragged Hands

Ragged hands make waves in sodden,
churned water where you stand.

In this place of wonder only birds
can swoop to depose gratitude;

they are hands of a spineless God,
a mobile, wretched in its swathes

of winded wonder. Glass panelled foliage
makes a mockery of horizons

where bears dream up to sticks and
down to stones. A barking ghost

hides in woodland, ever searching for
an encampment to dishevel.

These lands encase every eye rolling
thought and blissful tear, into suds; gone.

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