delicate hands

delicate hands
nimble and precise
(you would have made
a fine surgeon
save for your disdain
of other people)

skip back and forth
with a reverence
usually reserved
for vintage wines

or rare first editions
(a Blake, perhaps,
who is according to you
the only Romantic
worth a damn)

those questing fingertips
growing bolder
stopping and starting
their leisurely study at will

(the only blemish
the raised scars
running ruler-straight
down the wrists
perfectly parallel)

moving first this way
then that way
unhurriedly
over and under
as the mood strikes them

(a detour into the elbow,
a quick voyage into the navel,
no place too obscure
for your investigation)

until like explorers of old
those hands venture far
into undiscovered country

(here there be dragons
you say while tracing
the green-gold tattoo
resting comfortably
just below the hip bone)

alighting on unknown shores
with the arrogant humility
of men everywhere
who have found treasure

(it hurt much less than
it could have
and it then hurt not at all)

in the place
they least expect it.