Tuesday, January 25, 2011

My Good Hands

Pieces of you are embedded in me.
I want nothing to do with them, but plenty to do to you.
The shards grow sharper,
They dissipate into my blood to spy vulnerable trends:
a word or lack thereof strolling through my veins and arteries.
A better man might try to flush them out, to heal me. Not you.
You keep your entry/exit points open,
And what if I bleed a little.
I notice when a lightning of a laugh
comes at me to smear a temporary calm,
careful, not to erase my nicks and bruises
or to restore some points in need of luster.
There is no such kindness.
Your memory awaits my good hands.
They will not come.

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