First question of my interrogation is why now, when

there’s no pressure to return to the subject of poverty.

It’s sore only when the plaster cast peels off and this desiccate

paw reveals itself the yardstick for what goes beyond the hand

and takes the name prehensile. And what does

that mean, asks my detective. I answer that there is oversight

of basic exceptions of the language in the Webster dictionary,

so afraid am I of catalogue in the American.

That doesn’t answer my question, he says, says here

prehensile means what might be handled.

Why? Under it, memories become the fate of Tasmania’s industry,

none of its archive, which is hot and at hand, rather than simply

at hand. Interrogate me further and let me tell you about

its parts: the miniature knife and the corkscrew and the mouth.

These are waiter’s friends at hand.