BROKEN HAND
'My doubtful ambiguity has
things getting lost. The wind
blows these paintings off the
wall, or at least makes them
crooked as the door gets
slammed. At evening there's
a bright light in this window,
and then it passes. I only
sometimes wonder about
that, but by the dark, deep
days of December, there's
no longer any of that.
I burrow. My catacomb
is a broken hand.'
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