He has a body but it doesn't matter, clean sheets on the bed but it doesn't matter.\n\n[[This is where he trots out his sadness. Little black cloud, little black umbrella.|You miss]]
Yes.\n\nHe would look out the window and stare at the trees that once had too many branches and now seemed to have too few.\n\n[[Is that all?|No,]]
[[And his hands?|His hands]]
Yes, and he likes flipping the chairs, watching them fill with people.\n\nHe likes the orange juice and toast of it, and waxed floors in any light.\n\n[[He wants to be tender and merciful.|That sounds overly valorous.]]
I don't have to answer that.\n\n[[It should matter.|He has a]]
That sounds overly valorous.\n\n[[Sounds like penance.|And his hands?]]
[[Was there no one else?|His hands keep]]
At first there were too many branches so he cut them and then it was winter.\n\n[[He meaning you.|Yes.]]
His hands keep turning into birds and flying away from him.\n\n[[Him being you.|Yes. 2]]
[[We bang on the pipes and it makes a noise.|Was there]]
[[Pain makes a noise.|We]]
You miss the point: the face in the mirror is a little traitor, the face in the mirror is a pale and naked hostage and no one can tell which room he's being held in.\n\n[[He wants in, he wants out, he wants the antidote. He stands in front of the mirror with a net, hoping to catch something.|He wants to move]]
Someone to pass this with me.\n\nYou wanted more.\n\nI want what everyone wants.\n\n[[He raises the moon on a crane for effect, cue the violins.|That's what the]]
Yes.\n\n[[Do you love yourself?|I don't]]
His hands keep turning into birds, and his hands keep flying away from him.\n\n[[Eventually the birds must land.|http://www.richardsiken.com/index.html]]
He wants to move forward into the afternoon because there is no other choice.\n\n[[Everyone in this room got here somehow and everyone in this room will have to leave.|So what's left?]]
Unfinished Duet
Nothing.\n\n[[Was there no one else?|Left-handed truth]]
He likes the feel of the coffeepot.\n\n[[More than the hacksaw?|Yes,]]
That's what the violins are for.\n\nAnd yes, he raises the moon on a crane and scrubs it until it shines.\n\n[[So what does it shine on?|Nothing.]]
No, there were other attempts, breakfasts: plates served, plates carried away.\n\n[[He doesn't know what to do with his hands.|He likes the feel of the coffeepot.]]
[[What did you really want?|Someone to pass]]
So what's left?\n\nSing a song about the room we're in?\n\nHammer in the pegs that fix the meaning to the landscape?\n\n[[The voice wants to be a hand and the hand wants to do something useful.|What did you really want?]]
Richard Siken\nvia @anahaedra
Left-handed truth, right-handed truth, there's no pure way to say it.\n\n[[The wind blows and it makes a noise.|Pain]]