Thursday, May 6, 2010


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