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<title>Rough gloves | Autocento of the breakfast table</title>
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<h1 class="title">Rough gloves</h1>
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<p>I lost my hands & knit replacement ones<br />from <a href="poetry-time.html">spiders’ threads</a>, stronger than steel but soft<br />as lambs’ wool. Catching as they do on nails<br />& your collarbone, you don’t seem to like<br />their rough warm presence on your <a href="feedingtheraven.html">cheek or thigh</a>.<br />I’ve asked you if you minded, you’ve said no<br />(your face a table laid with burnt meat, bread<br />so stale it could <a href="weplayedthosegamestoo.html">break a hand</a>). Remember<br />your senile mother’s face above that table?<br />I’d say she got the meaning of that look.<br />You’d rather not be touched by these rough gloves,<br />the only way I have to knit a love<br />against whatever winters we may enter<br />like a silkworm in a spider’s blackened <a href="serengeti.html">maw</a>.</p>
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