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A story or two
They’d tell out
These folded fingers
If gifted a fresh blush of
Lips, palate, tongue

A blessing this perhaps
Or rather more a curse
Or better still the both
A confession, an absolution
Each sat astride its mirror

Hubris swallowed, spat out
These crablike fingers
Clutching at straws
While nearby a camel
Patiently awaits a breaking

Oh, what a story
They would spill
Then two then three
Then four than five
These mottled fingers

That’s All Folks


No strenuous journey then
Nor some gargantuan struggle
To find there lurking at his core
A wish for truce, reconciliation

After some nights of vacillation
Sends her an invitation, cautious
Receives a note, non-committal
She even sends her love, she says

Yet there’s another message
Cushioned by these crafted lines
Not enough to do any damage
Or, contrariwise, be of any use

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