Lord Nelson's hand， blasted
off by musket-fire at Tenerife，
stayed clutched into a fist
in the gap below his stump，
the unbeholdable
fingers stabbing
their ever-longer nails
into his palm. Daily
in the amputated place
the gone
fingers cut deeper
into the gone & welted
skin. If a hand
can outlast
its shearing-off & still
inflict its scratch & cramp，
he thought， how much
more must the soul
go on when the whole
body's a phantom
body， rid
of all but
its spirit's
fist-kinks & stabs？