I seem to be in poetry mode at the moment. Weird. But also fun.
fingers
when precisely was it that my
fingers (scrap-nailed, bent)
Β
became
Β
lined with use, adult tools that do not
resemble those slim fronds
with which I learned
to grasp crayons, doorhandles
Β
firmly, with a childβs sense
of seriousness in such simple tasks; when
Β
did the callous below
the ring-finger of my left hand,
flesh-caramel dot beneath a silver band
form; or when
Β
did the sharp creases of
my palms first tar
in lines of life, heart,Β mercury
Β
the hidden onwards road,
the wandering star?Β Β