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Together, Our Fingers Weave a Basket

A hand held in the dark,

Different than that swinging lope

Of our daylight lark.

The gentle squeeze, comfort, trope.


If I could lace with your

Soft palm, calloused in mine

It would be no chore,

I’d take it as a sign.


That love is a holy mark,

A touch of ashen hope

Staying past a careless remark

Crass but genial snark


We could write our lore

Full of fairies and vines

And when called for more,

Know I will leave your heart my line.


So, may I hold your hand?

As we try throughout to understand?

By Jeremy M. Garnish


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