I stretch out a finger.
On most of the days of our universe, that finger has been and will be
no finger, but a loose collection of atoms not involved with one another.
And they couldn’t care less about being a finger.
I point the finger at these characters.
On most of the days of our universe, there is nobody around to hear the divine in Bach.
The finger I call a miracle. Writing about it is no trickery.
I raise the finger.
I roll it up to claim the membership of a fist.