they slid on the slick
of cold-pressed board
and made verdant fieldevoking whorls
and then palmheels pressed
and they looked like feet
and a clean fingertip made toes

on a clean piece of paper
one by one the fingers admitted:
“this is him” “this is also him” “here’s more him” “you got him now”
and the prisoner escorted to his cell
wiping with paper towel only some of the residue
sighed for the days of fingerpaints