Friday, January 30, 2009

Nails pulled, de-
rooted from wands
bloody, no longer, in such pain

You I offer these
souvenirs of my plain-style.
How short, clean. How
polish-less and cuticlung--

etched remnants of skin,
still adhering. Edged
unsmooth from a recent clip
done in the tub where

evidence, shard and flight
of my dead self can be
by water caught, spiraled
to an elsewhere, not be-

come part of househeld dust.

I offer you nails.
My hands, sleighted, ex-
tend away from my body
their ruined beds.

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