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My hands are in the fire
of slow burn days.

The crinkle of fearful
plastic over flames

or something like
bruised apple pucker

wraps my knuckles
looser year by year.

Soon I am afraid
to say they will be

even more like -
even moor like

when the autumn
scours the gorse

and the ligaments
of burned twigs curl down.

Mark Allinson


The following comments are for "My Hands"
by Tadpole

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