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I Grasp Not the Hand
by
Neil Bridgens
I feel ape-like on a crucifix,
condemned in this hour,
alone amongst a martyr of fools
who gallop on wild wings.
This night of decision cuts into wrist and sinew,
yet my blood unstains
under this palm branch
that soothes my blistered feet.
My bones are brittled in bandage,
wild I lie in need of resurrection
and deliverance.
I am saint-like and featureless,
before this hour i shall arise
i am eternity
my chains grow strong.
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