until we met at your hospital bed,
i knew not of the feeling of leather: your hands.
one no longer in association with the brain, the other dry & red, pulp. overripe, perhaps.
nonetheless, my feeble & smaller hands attempt closeness.
try to oil yours, now out of order.

it never occurred to me until this hospital exchange of touch that i would look back six years ago to a distinct time you yelled racial slurs to a japanese tourist visiting the pearl harbor memorial site as a
high point in your
life. you were
so alive and angry.

you were
fury you
were fury
you were.

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