Lord Nelson's hand， blasted

    off by musket-fire at Tenerife，

    stayed clutched into a fist

    in the gap below his stump¹，

    the unbeholdable

    fingers stabbing

    their ever-longer nails

    into his palm. Daily

    in the amputated place

    the gone

    fingers cut deeper

    into the gone & welted

    skin. If a hand

    can outlast²

    its shearing-off & still

    inflict³ its scratch & cramp⁴，

    he thought， how much

    more must the soul

    go on when the whole

    body's a phantom⁵

    body， rid

    of all but

    its spirit's

    fist-kinks & stabs？