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these hands

you see these hands?
they are stained by tired, fallen ashes,
steeped in cold, fragile deeps
and they become rocks when I look away.

do not hesitate to reach forward
thrust a quiet word through my tight fingers
and sing me a song of the sun

the quiet twistings, blood vessels wound
keep my skin far away
from the careful little voice
which insistently reaches outward,
calling: carry me, please
carry me

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