Doves Of The Hand Poem by A.Z. McCoy

Swirl of light and dark
Divided diaphanous murk, this land
Cairns of silt and windblown sand
Through lonely hours
Born of dove
Or without hand

Does labyrinth extend a search,
Fan the flickered heat?
Night's unruly phantom laugh fallow
Crushed foot querulous
Gash through desert and meadow

Sing out,
Whoever, whatever stands
Beyond lowering curtain
And a tired child's ear
Smelt ore clanging in shape to metal

Pour the diecast mold,
Frozen in
Deeds of bone, flesh left cold
Wrought of sickness and mistaken tremble,
A withered form,
Melt eternal.
Seeps the day's trickle of anthills
Under falling foot's shadow

Save this rubble of shining home
This thick shellac I scrape
While crawling
For love,
For mystery,
For a silent star's burn
Traces the ax blade,
Hung over clasped knuckles