Hands
By Russell Edson
There was a road that leads him to go to find
a certain time where he sits.
Smokes quietly in the evening by the four legged
table wagging its (well why not) tail, friendly
chap.
Hears footsteps, looks to find his own feet gone.
The road absorbs everything with rumors of sleep.
And then he looked for himself and even he was gone.
Looked for the road and even that . . .
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