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finger tipped with ice

In the dream, my hands are ice.

It is as if the ice-storm herself

had taken her bony fingers to my hand

held it there a while, until my hands turned

dead, white and grey, why the blood had

gone missing! Has nobody noticed?

So when you see and that look of concern

moves fast across your fast, a brief emotion,

you take my own small hands in yours,

rubbing and blowing your hot breath

to my palms til they are warm, later

rubbing them balms and unguents,

you palm me back to life and my blood

runs rich as claret sluicing through my veins.

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