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February 5, 2015 / barton smock

fist

clean, examiner, poem, poems, poetics, poetry, prose, puppetry

with a clear
head
I wash
my hands
in the dark
and spread
the fingers
of one
into the absence
of my father’s
glove
where
the fingers
of my other
had died
for the knuckles
mother’d
liken
to a puppet’s
ribs

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