Your hands don’t look like yours,
the skin dough-pale and grazed.
I think of how we used to walk on walls
holding onto those huge thumbs,
even the narrow black railings by the river,
one foot in front of the other
faster and faster.
You were so used to fear –
swallowing it quick like scalding tea
in the mess, battling fog
over the world shrunk to a map –
we thought it was invisible to you,
although later you remember
where the graze came from:
walking home with us you’d dragged
your hand along the wall until it bled
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