William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Prodigal Hands

Sometimes I think that without these writings,
I would drift off into space like a child’s balloon.

Sometimes I think I already have.

Sometimes I rejoice in the return of my prodigal hands,
and do not ask where they have been.

Sometimes I am not I, but the wind.

Sometimes I find this body by the road,
and wonder if it might be something I said.

Sometimes I simply bow my head.

Field of stubble; walnut grove; chimney crow;
are these things I really know?

Will they love me when I’m dead? Will you, my friend?


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Categories: New Poems & Pieces

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