The Perfect Hand

Today I drew the Perfect Hand.

Its form, its structure, its shading, its tone…
the embodiment of the artist’s dream:
to capture the essence of the unimportant hand.

But it was in the wrong place for the drawing.

I considered warping the drawing to make it fit—
it was, after all, the Perfect Hand—
twisting limbs and positions, symbols and message,
to keep the Perfect Hand.

How often in life have I twisted my dreams
to keep a Perfect Hand?

Too often. Too often.

With the gentle pain of experience,
I erased the Perfect Hand.