November Selection #4

Hands,
growing transparent as water,
move toward
a chair, a purse, a pen.
Yes, these, my own hands,
like ice melting
to thinnest sliver
transparent as glass, beaded with sweat,
these hands move to take hold of
an envelope, a steering wheel,

which are themselves melting
like sea ice
until what is entirely water
moves to grasp what is wholly water
and these two waves, cross currents,
sliding crash
in myriad confused foam
at the curb where the mailbox stands.

The letter, addressed, drops down the slot.
The driver checks rear-view mirror and pulls away.

--Deanna Hopper