the poetry of Charles Fry

31 December 1996

fragile, handle with care

Today my hands are made of transparent glass.
I can hold them up and look straight into the sun.
Though not for very long.
The bent rays burn my cheek bones.
I can reach them down into the water
and take the fish because they can't see me either.
Though not for very long.
The icy cold paralyzes my arms.
I can catch falling butterflies.
But never can I grab a falling stone.
They are too fragile and easy to break.
Early this morning I chipped a small
peace off the back of one.
Couldn't get it to stay back together.
So sometimes now I'm afraid to reach out.
And not because I don't want to feel anything.
But today my hands are made of transparent glass.

Copyright © 1996 Charles Fry