Supposedly universal, this initial fascination
with all five fingers, the way they move in and out
and grasp, and create sensations
along the inner surface of your mouth; I remember, too, how lovely
they were when I first held them, those long fingers, immaculate and
melancholy, as though sculpted from
sighs exhaled in a dream.
You watch them move, unaware of all the things they will someday hold:
flowers, bubbles, silver coins, and one day, perhaps,
some other fingers, some stronger than yours, some rougher;
some smaller, tiny and curled inward
as though hiding the key
to a forgotten garden
