The palm and the fist and the knife in the Fist of the hand. You’re the side that enters The throat, the bed of the mouth. Take As long as you need. There’s sleep in the Back on the edge of the knife. It’s cold On the counter. The numbers are flat Like a palm. Life, round. That’s the sound Of it rolling, plane reconning. Sky is more Bowl than plate. In the kitchen the stars Watch the sweep of our bodies. They wink Like a knife. What I saw first was a flash In the fist, then w