You sit down to write a report entitled,
“How is it possible for one person to kill another?”
An hour later you wander off into the streets,
leaving a blank page pocked with dark nothings.

You see people cover coughs, remove glasses,
wave goodbyes, adjust headsets, thumb mobiles,
stub out cigarettes and arrange hair in ways that
suggest intimate worlds and private moments.

Almost every action unaware,
an unnoticed use of the hands.

You wonder how many more steps
in the direction of unconsciousness
would be required for one of those pairs of hands
to be raised against another.

You fall into the hole
between the hand and the heart
and stay there
because it is easier than answering such questions.

 View this poem on The Disappearing »