THE FINGER

for Anselm Berrigan

Thou shalt
not convert
thy neighbor’s wife
into nebulous brush
scraping ‘gainst day’s folly
yet it be night
success is the lowest art
says Anselm and what’s more
a retouched codpiece at the Frick
or grid with grin crossing Bleeker
and I don’t yet understand
“the magic” of Chardin’s plums
so why am I here
to pollinate a bureaucracy
of cold little men
commenting on Rembrandt
his right hand
nearly bursting
its obscene
bouquet of fingers
joy is just
weird enough it seems
to grope from behind
and diminished in its aftershock
I want to be serrated
the guy at the bodega knows
all too much about my preferences
retouched codpiece over Roman shewolf
wink across to two Vermeers
probably ladies at work
I know I am
sewn contemporary domestic
all my dreams
of going
royal soured
with the understanding
that my ring
finger will always pale
when my middle stiffens