Turn Over Your Hand
Turn Over Your Hand
Those lines on your palm, they can be read
for a hidden part of your life that only
those links can say—nobody’s voice
can find so tiny a message as comes
across your hand. Forbidden to complain,
you have tried to be like somebody else,
and only this fine record you examine
sometimes like this can remember where
you were going before that long
silent evasion that your life became.
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