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.