Hands (for Diva de la lune)

I wish I were her hand
Dripping ice cream
Crying raspberry truffle tears
Shining, dropping with the golden sun
But for those noisy birds
Descending then fleeing
The back-and-forth repetitions of cars
Disrupting the street's society
I'd leave for them the crumbs
She flings from her cheek

It's getting colder now
The raised, wooden trash bins
Tilt back-and-forth in the wind
Here, but in this town, everywhere
At the beach I remember seeing one
With an earnest some one looking in
Tipped all the way over
Not rocking
But maybe he was, and no wind,
As back-and-forth his hands
Grasped for the shiny things
Crows like to gather
But smaller, and not in his bag
Slung over-shoulder
Into which he flung cans
All lined up on a roof
A murder of crows applauded
Cawed how they wish they were more
Like hands

3/18/99