Tryst Poetry by Daniel Sumrall

A Wretched Hand

A wretched hand trembles always
and touch remains dead as ice;
these, then, are the hands of arms
begging for collapse to come
into them, their soft brittle
skin folds like the Bible's peel
of leaves turning from the cruel
condemnation to the glow
of grace, a fallen caress.



2002 Daniel Sumrall

More Poetry
Disorientation

Back to Contents