Sonnet ("Hands, the brothers...")

THREE POEMS

SONNET

Hands, the brothers, kiss: prelude and end.

Their instinct now is for an opposite.

Scooped palm and sculptor points surmise a fit

Better than each other; so a glove seeks for a hand.

The hounds are blessed, start over mound and thicket.

The impregnate blind pull toward, nearer and fuller

Till scent merges with body of scent. The loving killer

Dies in his joy, possessor at last of all of it.

But hands come back to look as in a mirror.

Hunt's exploded moment at the wood's rim

Lives only as remembered by each other.

Only in benediction's breadth may island chaos swim.

Midnight, at home, feast's end. The blond pointers

Sleep beside. Blood in the lamp burns dim.