Gloves
In another century
he gives her a pair of chicken skin gloves.
Chicken skin gloves, dark cream from the top of the bottle,
worn so close the ripples of her
cuticles show through—fine
gloves, rolled up inside a walnut shell
and carried with a ribbon.
Chicken
skin gloves. Draped over a mouth, they soften
a beard, take the bristle out of a goodnight kiss.
How’s this? Wear them
to bed, your hands age free from sins of the flesh as if
you’ve never smoked a cigarette or bent to scrape
your sandals of shit had your . . .
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