I spent the afternoon putting up shelves.
When the thin drill bit continually missed
All the fingers of my left hand, it left me

Momentarily haunted by my own
Successful use of the tool, fighting the same
Horror I get after holding a baby

Or passing headlights on a two-lane road—
I've never swerved into them. It's hard to believe
I haven't been careless in that particular way.

But it must be true that I have not, for if I had,
I wouldn't be able to remember it. I couldn't admit
In retrospect that I may have been looking forward

To holes in the ends of my digits, to the prospect of
Me, dead as a marionette, all the fingers of one hand
Wired under control of the other.