Full Hand

in the morning dew
betwixt the blades of grass
o’er yonder lawnmower
a digit severed, lays
peering e’er so mournfully
a wrinkl’d knuckle
like ceramic tile, cracked
a sorrowful cuticle
like a unibrow, intact
but not so the attachment
nor the dreams
of manicures gone
of illustrations undrawn
of sweet morning dew on the lawn
caressing, nevermore
e’er with the full hand
empty-handed though it’s not
full handed nevermore