David Lloyd
A Hand
I.
A hand,
gone
(I loom forward
to the flank
the watermark-
welted sheet
(sand cast
the shredded hour
stroked the spine keys
to the cleft
II.
Tautened membrane
at the hairline
shift it will
shift it must
the light sifts
appalling
what remains
the labour
(the act split
from the work
unhooking
the clasp
(the scalp
torqued
III.
brittle bloody silk
over the shear wound:
a gap in my wall
where the stone fell away
falling
still falling
and calling
a ghost to the gap
ghost
of a pleasure
the pleasure of
a ghost
at my table
IV.
the bruise plaque
spreads
by dint of boot
again, again
on the same stain
downcut
the pad
the stone-eddy
corrades
lay your scooped head
to the indented sill
grit in the ear
the bit
bit down
David Lloyd, born in Dublin 1955, now lives in Los Angeles, teaching at the University of Southern California. Writer and critic, he has published three books of poetry: Taropatch (Oakland: Jimmy’s House of Knowledge, 1985), Coupures (Dublin: hardPressed Poetry, 1987), and Change of State (Berkeley: Cusp Books, 1993).