Hands

My hands, when dulled by sickness, slack

As if the very muscles had shrunk

Like the penis of some drunk, black

Trousers dropped now around his swaying knees.

Such similes abound in fevered, sweating brows

Which, confined in their sultry houses, seize 

Upon whatever passing fancy might moistly fall

Like sweat from some mad, forgotten deity

Who, long ago, had laity who all

But burnt themselves as meagre, sacred offering 

For love of It, for even beasts

Will quiet if it's feasts they're proffering.

See now! The fever grips my hands,

Whose dull scrawl resembles one infernal line,

Their flexors too weak for fine demands

The like of which the heart's fancy

Will often bend. No more of this!

Hands: fit only for kiss and chiromancy.