Hefting cudgel hands
over gentler tasks and
spilling, dropping, breaking the shells

it’s not how I’d thought, so best
curl quiet when I can bear to, and
make paper promises not to remember
before these rutted fingertips lost
their taste
for skinned light
tiny hairs in the eye’s gather
or in warm tar dark and gentle
moist
all that is unknown, felt and believed

strummed on pain and beauty
before I was wise enough, now wisdom
is a shade
taunting me with a maybe life
uncalloused

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