Shall I dabble in dawn shallows,

scatter sapphires there at noon,

or caress the satin whisper

of a child’s first ballet shoes?

I could plunge up to the wrist

in glossy, wicked chocolate,

juggle gaudy festive baubles,

or crush berries to a pulp.

Let me drive across a page

like a newly-minted mini,

or conduct a brass band

with a flock of raucous parrots.

I’d like my fingertips to flash

with the ladybird’s lacquer,

crumble pollen to a powder,

or gleam like tangerines.

I want my hands to drip

just like Lady Macbeth’s did

on the night she stained her soul

with a pair of painted daggers.