Sand Through My Hand

You’ve escaped me again,
like sand through my hand;
sweat from my pores;
sleep from my night.

I try to paint You,
but no portrayal will do. You
cannot be captured and every
image merely mirrors my wanting.

And yet yearning, too, is an attestation of your visitation…

I daydream of Your return, and
then you pinch me asleep. I dream
deeper into what is true: Your
slipping away is also Your drilling
deeper into me.

11 thoughts on “Sand Through My Hand

  1. the way you point to the presence in absence is beautiful, Allen. Thank you.

  2. agjorgenson says:

    Thanks Matthew. Presence in absence is happening in spades these days, it seems.

  3. shoreacres says:

    Every now and then, one of your poems feels like a Gordian knot. When that happened with this one, I spent a good bit of time thinking about the nature of the sword that could ‘unknot’ it. I don’t have an answer, but I’ve had a good bit of fun with my ponderings. It’s really quite an intriguing poem, Allen.

  4. Geri Lawhon says:

    Wonderfully written, thank you for sharing it.

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