名人诗歌|A Hand

A hand is not four fingers and a thumb.

Nor is it palm and knuckles^1，

not ligaments or the fat's yellow pillow，

not tendons， star of the wristbone， meander^{2 of veins3.}

A hand is not the thick thatch^{4 of its lines}

with their infinite dramas，

nor what it has written，

not on the page，

not on the ecstatic body.

Nor is the hand its meadows of holding， of shaping

not sponge of rising yeast-bread，

not rotor pin's smoothness，

not ink.

The maple's green hands do not cup

the proliferant rain.

What empties itself falls into the place that is open.

A hand turned upward holds only a single， transparent^{5 question.}

Unanswerable， humming like bees， it rises， swarms^{6， departs.}