From A Dark Bar

Spotlight on the worn hands, empty.
A sort of how wisdom derides us
shot, deep to the solar plexus.

&,
though there's nothing new & no sun
yet, again, we are confounded.
Dumbstruck. The hands crimp on air.
Which reminds of the stale,
oncoming-cold breath of a child
-say a nephew or neighbour,
or noone you know,
some stray shortarse happened upon
in a shop displaying
rudenesses beyond our ken, betraying
our age to ourselves,
anyone watching.

Except of course noone is.

Only the hands
on themselves

wormveined
as in the easiest of predictions.