We've tried engaging and being engagedwearing rings, committing
first to a pulse but failing that a hum
a grinding of gears meant to crush
broaden horizons and unearth rhizomes
correct the mistakes in the root
killing the flower
but my eight fingers
two thumbs and eleven ribs
are worn down and wet
ghosts pour out from books and hiss
smoke curling up from their mouths
as they remind us all
of what we've lost
my fingers too thin to hold gold
my blood and skull richer for its thrift
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