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Abandoned to the hand,
          the artery behind
                    emphatic pulse—

Clean and seamed as an infant’s
                    skull, the curve is—

The doughy crease, the stress
                    of this shape:

the hand is on its instrument,
          juggles
                    the ache which divines.

The mark is modest,
          cupped in a chagrined hand.

Trace of its newborn seam
          turned otherwise in the
                                   hand.

The weight of itself leaves it
          behind, seam
                    soft as a mouth.