Dark Hands Irreplaceable

I will give you the muscles
and veins of my verse
and the pain in my chest,
all fit to burst…
but I could write like this
for page after page,
expunge all my rage
and I wouldn’t feel better.
I just couldn’t cope with
the end of your letter.
I want to write back,
but I can’t do it now,
I’m shaking and slaking
the thirst of my hurt
with dirt from the garden
and I’ll play with the worms.
Lay on my back until
the sun rises over the trees
and the shadow embraces me,
the dark hands that I wish
were yours are irreplaceable.