Countless Commandments

The thumb and index finger that pinch the coin
first take the coin from a pocket or a purse.

During all that time, the prettiest index finger,
unable to point to a random spot on a spinning globe,

cannot touch a destination to travel to, in soggy boats.
Visitors find dwellers indoors, inhabiting residences.

Pearls rolling toward the fringe of the carpet apocalyptically
announce another necklace snagged on a eucalyptus branch.

Fingerprints on money do not decrease its value,
nearly undetectable unless held over a tea kettle, wearing ear-plugs.

An anchor made from a block of ice can hold us in place
only for a short while, for one cubic millimeter on the calendar.

The fingerprint adheres to the surface with a gummy filament.
Almost inaudible, the knocking on the windowpane soon ceased.

The red and pink costume should camouflage anyone among gourds.
Rubbing dollars with a chamois can eliminate scuffs and a scolding.