I Fingers are fingers and nothing more though they weave star searchers and baskets to carry fruits and soaps and styluses and marvelous things that make so much sense in that very moment to spend eternity in the drawer you know the one that drawer where we keep all the...other stuff its all that you ever were a pile of twigs and bugs whatever stained the rugs your forehead and one more said “hey, isn’t this a lovely day to garner a breeze and ask yourself if they’re just fingers and nothing more II spiderwebs aren’t made by hand but spun from asses of arachnids I think at least but, of course, I’m no priest of…“spiderhood” if you would I’m just a man whose clippings turn to sand and dirt and ash with a twisted eyelash beckoning my rolling waves from you to me come cross this sea and heed this digit’s call and nothing more except, perhaps just one more what things came from thyngs a plushy platypus an atom bomb that tiptoed cross the beach shouting each to each Through symphony and state highway screech so many lessons to teach all made by of your little fingers and nothing more.