Good work has already been taught to them:
How to clasp a button to its home,
How to write the language of my mother and father,
How to knead water and flour into something worthy of the mouth,
And how to stay what violence could rear up in them long enough to settle.
But these are old lessons, and solitary ones.
And when around you,
These hands move for something new,
Something beyond the work physics of mundane hour-to-hour,
Around you, they want to take on forms
Outside of what was ever taught to me.
They want to share with you a strange greatness,
By the thought of you alone, they become the support of a new religion,
Something with no son, no white-haired god, but plenty of holy
Help define this prayer:
What, exactly, do these hands clasp for, and with, at night?
What new words my bloodline couldn’t hold are coming?
When we are this way, how is it, to be full?
What leavens up and over?
And who gives?
So then, make with me the come-together.
Pass this motion.
Take it from my hands,
To your mouth,
From your mouth,
To my hands,