Poem: ‘My Hands’
Tariq Latif, 25 July 1991
All day I have wiped paste inks From auxiliary rollers, ink ducts, Rubber stamps and the work top. Dabbing My fingers in trichloroethane.
The cleaning solution is clear as water And smells like methylated spirits. My fingers are numb. When I squeeze Them they tingle, letting loose
Tiny electric bolts. The top part Of the fingerprints is grained with inks. My fingers are like lighthouses...
