Five hundred fingers

With oily intent

Leave firm whorled prints

On bare skin

Seeping into the bones

And wrapping over the sinew

A hundred hands

That touch the intimate

Sink deep into the eyes

Puncture the pores

And strengthen the skin

They fit, unwelcome, inside

Peel off my skin

And scrub the flesh

Until the fingerprints are gone

And obliterate the embrace

Of Spring’s soft cruelty.