Some time in October 2003 I copied out an excerpt from the poem “Rust” by one Michael Cumming turns out that thanks to modern search engines I am able to correctly identify the poet as Newfoundlander Michael Crummey and the volume in which the poem appears as Hard Light. This is what captivated me:
The boy watches his father’s hands. The faint blue line of veins rivered across the backs, the knuckles like tiny furrowed hills on a plain. A moon rising at the tip of each finger.
This is exquisite. It makes you want to further meditate upon the countries carried in the history of hands. In such small compass, a great expanse.
And so for day 863