Old Hands
A most familiar and delicate touch
Pulls me from the foggy depths,
Travelling the deep well-worn path on my palm
Like a first mate who
Confidently walks the length
Of his weaving ship
On a moonless night.
It cherishes each silver-smooth scar
and rough knuckle, and twirls upon my fingertips
now merry, now serious,
and finally satisfies itself
that each whorl and hair is still
safe and at hand.
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