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There is so little
we can understand
truly:

like the writer I met
who was born with one hand:
one beautifully crafted, five-fingered
wonder,

and a stub:
ending abruptly at the wrist,
the terminus of possibility,
an unformed question
in the dark.

In New York:
the woolen left sleeve
hangs just awry, slightly gaping
and dark like a shadow

burned away in a moment
by the thunderous prize
of morning.

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