Poem: It Was in My Head But My Hands

It Was in My Head But My Hands

move as they do,
interpret the angles
I have idealized,
or is it my mind
not knowing
what motion it means?
I knew in my mind
what to do, saw it,
felt it, thought it,
but the motion itself
did not match,
or did they match
what I did think,
was it a misalignment
that began in my mind?
I cannot know,
cannot say 
there is a difference
or if I splitting clay
into more pieces
and pretending it makes
even more clay.
The fingers of my hand
cannot dance
to the tune
that my mind
was playing,
and I cannot hear
if it was the player
who missed the beat
or the dancer
forgetting steps.

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