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A hand is not four fingers and a thumb.
not ligaments or the fat's yellow pillow, not tendons, star of the wristbone, meander2 of veins3. A hand is not the thick thatch4 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, transparent5 question. Unanswerable, humming like bees, it rises, swarms6, departs. 点击收听单词发音
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