Two Hands Poem by Tom Hamilton

Sometimes the morning comes without warning,

and sometimes you have to wait.

Possessed of a ray of breathing blackness;

a quake of awakening rage.


That's what I never tried to tell you:

I can't stop the path of such sun.

And that was the way that I loved you,

with one tender hand, and one;

Which loathed you like a treasure,

but a fingerprint away.

With a fondness which dawn can't measure,

and a hate that gets up before day.