All the Digits

My fingers are dark and empty;
lacking adjectives they wind their torsos,
wriggle their keratin heads into replicas of crudely-cut paths
streaking themselves into the sides of long-standing mountains.

My fingers are cursing me
and I cannot look. Better
a hand in my mouth than a foot;
better a nail round my teeth than a tongue
in my cheek.

My fingers are writing a story about me;
they are touching the characters
in all the right places;
Freudian-slipping
down the sweat of thick necks;
clogging up nostrils
that attempt to breathe love
all over.

My fingers are closing and opening
like curtains.
They are keeping you out.
They are letting you in.

My fingers are picking sleep out of the corners of eyes
and scooping lint from novelty belly-buttons.

My unwashed fingers
are twisting the intricacies of my name
into the back hairs of strangers.

My fingers are refreshing
and refreshing
and refreshing
this page.






Nov 2009.