Hope seeps
through my fingers
and falls on the open page
before me.
No matter how tightly
I hold my hands together
in a little cup of
flesh and bone
I cannot stop
the drain and drip
through the cracks
and fjords of my fingers.
Can this page hold and handle
the seepage of hope
that my hands
cannot contain, or
will spaces
of sentence structure, and breaks
of paragraphs, and white spaces
in the center of the letter “O”
provide enough maneuverability
and interpretive dynamism
so as to provide hope
no resting place?
Where then, O hope, will
you find a home? Where
will your roots take hold?
I know of no container
to hold you. My hands
have already failed. I
will just let you
drip and, helplessly, watch
and see where you pool
and rest.