Poem: The Hand

The Hand

does not
move without
it being moved
by the thought
of the one
whose hand
it is, but
we do not
see them, back
so far, the hand
gloved, dark
sleeves hiding
even the arms.
Who is this?
We will not
be told, can
only guess
the name.  They
would rather
we guess at who
then consider
the question
of why it is
the hand is here,
what it is doing,
manipulating with
those digits.  Instead,
of wondering
about motivations
we only wonder idly
about the motivator.

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