Work Song

his hand all callous
layer on layer like a ram’s horn
marking the years spent ministering
to the blind drill press

her hand taut flesh around
an unseen wound she pictures
as a nest of squirming horrors
hidden somehow inside her computer keypad

hands so numb it’s a wonder they can even find each other
let along crave the contact
stretching toward flame instead of the ice
that might preserve for longer than an instant
such masterworks as fingers still can build


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