The Hand of Glory
- Bob Beagrie (U.K.)
It’s a scorcher
in mid-September
seven berries dangle
from every branch
blood stains for the end
of a sacrificial
summer
but the 5 o clock shadows
betray the season
the way they sprawl
too early, too
tar-black
across sun-paled roads
the way they pool
in potholes and pockmarks
race harvested
stubble fields
skritty-scratty like Fred
Flintstones’
chinny-chin-chin
It’s all Sex on the Beach
It’s all Slippery
Nipples
It’s too bright, too dried
and crisp to go
tee-total, or
keep your eyes from squinting
the lids drooping
like berries,
lashes locking to stop
your darkness
from leaking out, to resist
sipping from the
spring
of slumber and sink into
its pool and while
you wallow some scally
equipped with a
hanged man's
severed hand plucks the giddy-
golden leaves as
if they
were Doubloons,
sovereigns
Threepenny bits,
hearts
and other nostalgia-riddled
tokens gone by the
bye.