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Second-Hand Skates

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These skates are ancient, caked in copper dust
That sprinkles the snow with rusted flakes
Before I even set foot on the rink.
Endless lengths of glass conceal the summer waters,
Who beg to roam free and swallow me whole
And my body would float, or hopelessly sink.
Cautious cracks lurk among the thin layer of ice
And yet the crisp calm air beckons for me
To slide my dull blades on the surface, to slide
Until the crystal courtyard has embraced the design
That these second-hand skates have carved
Deep with each turn and every glide.





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