There's a glove in the street for a week.
Never moved. Ringed now with salt.
Surely this has tragic implications.
This is a poem, afterall. Help me with this.
Hands are unbearably beautiful.
That's a good start.
They hold things. They let things go.
That's rich. I can take it from there.
For a week there's a glove in the street.
–Mary Ruefle helped.
