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I stretched my fingers, and there I felt
A cut, a slit of tender flesh
Uncertain where it came from, or when —
Maybe yesterday, over piles of unsanded wood
Yet it never left the way it arrived, like that
January afternoon, many years ago –
I washed my fingers; we shook hands
Harmless scar; smiles and shied hellos
It never left – an echo grooved on some
Spontaneous rupture of skin
