A childhood story said that far away
And long ago, men bound themselves entwined
In twists and curves so tight that where those lay
The limbs would join. That sketch still in my mind...
So much they lost. The beauty, and the form;
Proportion gone. And where there used to be
That grace of movement, they had dared transform
And hinder part of them that would be free.
And hand to head, and arm to breast, they stand
And watch the pennies fall before their feet.
But all I think of is the useless hand
And how that closeness is its own defeat,
And how perhaps I, like them, could be free,
But keep the things I love too close to me.