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Untitled (7/14/10)

August 15, 2011

your skinny hands,
like cilia or fur
rising up from skin
rolling out of bones,
almost decorative if not
for the anxious twitch
forced out from under a move

each action seizing the soft, fine weave of the
overlay, the nap running contrary
to desire

anticipated friction
wants the tame of you
to show

arms always sideways and slightly long,
too long for the torso,
and the stroke of your finger to your eyes
too much for light to cover

shadows proof in waiting,
each fracture to dominate

skin like a risk
you continually take

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