Old friend, you have not given way to dust
What amnesties do lie beneath your palm.
Five lines upon the wrist may take my trust;
Thank third parties which do disturb my calm.
When love and life dashes across in lines,
Below your fingers, cool and temperate
I think on how this awry art defines
The space between the mad and desperate.
The freckles on your back, to me, remind
The simple purposes we discover,
There is only two of a distinct kind:
A gracious tool, and sometimes a lover,
I cannot dwell upon this funny trend
Which leaves me daft and questioning the end.