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Prevost
Poems
Feb 2021
My Hands
My hands are now my father’s hands
baked and beaten by a life
the scars of toil and weather
mark passages
knuckle busting bolts
sun wind cold
and misguided hammers
sculpted these derma landscapes
I hold them under the water
as the ocean and I return
they become distant and diffused
as they gently float away
Written by
Prevost
M/Pelada
(M/Pelada)
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