Touching



People say I have the touch

but I don’t see how my touch


is different than anyone else’s.

I touch four or five


brand new bibles

and feel exactly the same.


I run my hands over a Volvo

and detect no angels descending.


A woman brings her child to me

and I poke him in the third eye.


Thank you so much, she says

I never thought we’d get that thing


to close up and disappear.

At the end of the workday



I gaze at my hands

my ordinary hands and whisper,


Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, my little ones.


The light bulbs. The parking meter.

Chopsticks. Grass.