Monday, June 22, 2009

Not viable. Presque. I am this close to holding my own, and then they fall off, digit by digit. I was counting on you, I scold them, and they twist like worms in dirt. What remains for me are square mitts of palm. I clap like a baby. Yay for me, phalanges gone. Yay for me to be so unable to manipulate, use a zipper. I high five myself and it looks like I am doing tree. Just for fun I rest my sole against my knee. No balance, and I put it quickly down. The toes are useful in that way you don't notice at the keyboard or opening a door. I can't pick my nose. I can't write, well, only in prayer, the whole body involved in the script, the heart compressed. To write is to dive. Love letters were meant to be written not with fingers but with shoulders, the torso carving each word in subtle heave. Fingers ought to be left writhing in the dust like landed minnows, their nails--hard, blind, singular eyes. Incapable of depth.

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