extricate

an absent hand holds mine
 so I hang on to that hand
for dear life, and dear

is life; the moon behind
his cloud curtain
has stories of craters

and so do we, each encounter
leaves an imprint, we will
 says the moon

all go beyond the earth
so I imagine a globe
in my hand now

and spin it
 we have real choices
we think,

in the spin of ourselves
  caught by
the gravity

of situation and
by what is at hand
the hour is late

 or is it just
early. the hand in
mine is ghostly white.