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This is the season of rough hands
up inside
the guts of a chicken or upon some Caterpillar's wheel.
You told me your father was a fisherman,
and I could trust the seafood.
He misses his fingers
up a fish,
the crisp chew of a pear.
He told you to never trust a man without a skill.
You used to be able to talk
to him for hours --
not through hand on finger walks
along dewy veins
around the radii of apples
not even over fish.
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