If You Asked Me For A Poem I'd Say

By Martin Bemberg

Some days these hands, they wake to sleep
And some they wake to write.
Today these hands shake slight,
Not worthy of the pen, and so they type
And dream in unseen verses.

"Unseen verses?" you ask. "Unseen since when?
Since verses drowned in beaches black,
Which come around to tell the verses
They read verses now and then?"
(Yes. Unseen since then.)

A summer's day? A rose? I can't go there.
So should my hands then think in prose?
Should they think in prose and write
In verse of love beyond compare?

Well,
They can't yet write, these hands (they shake),
These hands, which you are in and wish to wear.
These hands, they shake.
So there.