Short man, brutish soldier to push against,
yet assuaging baby hunger even in the womb.
The one that points, intelligent and nervous--
the Jew, an artisan.
The third helps those on either side,
yet may stand alone--tall, silent cowboy.
The fourth retarded, contemplative, craving adornment.
The slender, unprotected one, lady-demoiselle.

They do not plot to murder each other in the night,
but live quietly in the House of Hand in pure thought
and anticipation, wiping, scratching, patting,
doing intricate, delicate tasks, tightening, wrenching,
sticking themselves in forbidden places.
They whirl inside, hiding their pads to make a hammer.
When the palm slaps, they stand and sting the face.

Even at rest they are all use, thinking finger thoughts.
The leaves and crown of the palm, they taste skin, trace,
drum--unlike those dumb peasants, their country cousins,
Toes, barely able to wiggle, stuck in collective shoes.

Fingers are so smart they can hardly unlearn anything,
love pressure and variety--
Ten aristocratic courtiers in the land of bone and flesh.

--And yet when I woke up this morning on my back,
the calm left hand was covering the right,
thumb over thumb, each finger over its like,
like a woman protecting her hardworking man, or like a man
covering his own wife with his own body--
knowing and wanting nothing but each other--

So that I was ashamed to have blundered upon their intimacy.