I can only imagine
your fingernails
have a faint resemblance
to a hand that folded away.
Now on this last ridge
I suddenly wake up
to nails for no
apparent rhyme
when an endless plateau
rules my undulating hope.
Eyes shut with
pitch dark all around
in chilling cold
and aching silence
my long fingernails
make music
for a lost poem of yesteryears
and surprise me.
