Issue 8 | Winter 2011


They hook into my back and shoulder,
press into my temples; they move up
and down me along with the other fingers;
they are filled with full-moon nails and
scrape along my cheek, and when they
are done with me, they are easily taken
to other tasks; they are busy with work,
and when I stop them and hold them
for a moment, they bend too easily back;
when they are in my fingers they pry away.
They are busy or they are at rest, but they
are never mine; even when they are close
at hand or in my hand, they belong to
palm and hand and those other fingers there.