Classic Poem

The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
Long fingers are old paintings on the wall.
Long fingers stretch, with no equivocal
Blurred beauty, through the dark rigid air.
And I have seen long fingers that would stare
With fiery eyes, and then the eyes would crawl
Deftly across the counterpane and fall
Soundless, with a wink of mild despair.

And there have been long fingers like a stone,
Eternal, girded with an ancient ring
Engraved: These fingers are not flesh and bone.
Often I catch my breath when I'm alone.
What was I saying? An Egyptian king
Once touched long fingers, which are not anything.