Smallness of Hands

One touch

is all and only
to brave my blood.
inward fold,
fold again.
Remember how they looked
as red cubicles? Inside me
it rained for forty days;
the machines

[I'm not extinct yet, am I?]
Save the last vision
for weak hands

of hands that know more
than weakness,
to make beg from soot, plants,
knuckle drought,
full of dirt and bone.
Look how they shiver,
just look.
In feebleness
see their name