Two palms open to testify

there was a brother,

the tiles broken on the floor.

When the hand is submerged

in water it bleeds the shades

of the atmosphere, unloading

the burden of rituals and observation.

From each wrist comes a color,

the objective: to identify the source

of illness. Red ink is purity; black,

something less significant. Blue equals

detail or a moment forgotten.

On the mountain-scape are horses.

The horses range in tone and pitch,

each one with a race beside them, each

one with fire on their back. One has a broken

neck. One is bleeding on the mountain. The

red becomes a landslide, carrying itself down

to the edge of the stream.

Hidden in the attic are a series of surrendered

files, boxes containing memorabilia from a time

you do not remember. But still you are the keeper,

preserving each handshake, each kiss, each

stack of fading letters. Your hands swollen

from paper-cuts and desire.