It's My Hands

It's my hands
that are addicted.

When I have a soft-skinned lover,
they'll caress,
warming.

But when she's elsewhere
they'll stroke anything
smooth and neutral.

Railings and banisters,
desktop and mouse,
pint glass and bar.



This poem has been accepted for publication in the summer edition of Inclement.

image: poem

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dish dosh
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image: set Hear





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