Different as fingers are,
they work to form the fist
that holds the hammer
of how we began,
two shapes probably never
meant to fit, impossible
now to separate, to imagine
otherwise than joined
by whatever force,
the sun pushing against
a cloud, poetry without
meter or form, electricity
and the matter of music.
The awkward steps,
the running starts,
there is no sense
to make of it, how even
falling apart we land
in this upward instant
of a bird taking to air.

Charles Carr
http://allpoetry-classic.com/selfrisinmojo

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