FingerprintDo you work with your hands, he asks me as swirls and eddies spill across the gray screen. My prints are worn like the back side of the penny I kept in my pocket for luck. After school I sat with my back pressed flat against the side of the dumpster, the coin delicate between my thumb and forefinger but too dull to catch the sun. Faggot thinks he can hide: spit consonants crackling blue like flame in the hard winter air. Back then beauty seemed inseparable from worth, worth from -less. Now I find on each finger another small imperfect galaxy |
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