What the Finger Writes

Your name scrawled on a bit of paper moves me.

And I should beware.

Take my dreaming self beyond the reach

of your cheery letters,

written laboriously with

stubby pencils and grubby

nails.

: What the finger writes the soul can read :

All life was spirit once

a disembodied groping across

the void;

toward the unknown otherness

the flesh is weak and slow

with luck I shall not live there

anymore.